


Hers

by WinterfellBaby



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arya and Sandor are buddies, Character Death, Consensual Underage Sex, Do what I want, Escape, Essos, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fighting scenes are not my thing, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I Don't Even Know, Older Sansa, POV Multiple, Ramsay is stopped, Rebellious Sansa, Sandor's a sweetheart, Sansa is a mess, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 52,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterfellBaby/pseuds/WinterfellBaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>***looking for a beta! If anyone is interested, please comment and leave an email address :)</p><p>AU: Robb keeps his vows and marries a Frey and then returns North to reclaim Winterfell. Sansa, feeling like she would never be rescued, therefore leaves with the Hound on the night of the Blackwater.<br/>After many months of travel and an incident with the Brotherhood without Banners that leads them to Arya, they return to Winterfell. Now Sansa must face the pressure to marry while also dealing with her feelings towards her sworn shield. </p><p>AN: This is my first work of fanfic ever so please be gentle in your criticism. Also, this fic will be very AU and therefore timelines will be all over the place so I'm sorry in advance! Will update tags and characters as the story moves forward.</p><p>Sansa is aged up to 15/16 (making Arya 13/14) and Sandor is down to 25 for peace of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to GRRM  
> Constructive criticism is welcome :)

Chapter 1: Sansa

She sat on one of the white, gnarled roots of the wierwood tree, thinking about how she had even gotten to sit within the strong walls of Winterfell.

Sandor. It was all thanks to Sandor. If he hadn't come to her that night, while the world was consumed in green flames and chaos, and given her the opportunity to fly out of her gilded cage, she wouldn't be here. Here in her home, with her mother, with her brother, with her sister.

 _But not for long_ , she thought to herself. Soon she knew she would have to marry some great lord or another. It was her duty as sister to a king. Her marriage would cement an alliance for her brother, and she knew that he needed all the support he could get in the coming battles against the Lannisters.

It pained her to think that her worth was only a thin piece of skin. She would never be an equal to her husband. Only a tool to be used whenever it pleased him. _No, Sandor will protect me. He would never stand aside while my husband took me by force. He would kill anyone who hurt me, he said_. And so far he had kept to his promise. There was many times that they were attacked while on the road, and Sandor made quick work of eliminating any threats to her person. He had said that killing was the sweetest thing there was, but how could he know when he had never kissed, never touched, never loved?

 _And now he knows,_ Sansa thought, with a fierce pride. She had been the one to tear down his walls when no one else had ever bothered to do so. No, only his little bird had thought to delve underneath his rough exterior and find the man underneath the Hound. Sandor Celagne, the non-knight with more honor than any knight Sansa had ever met. And he was hers. He was all hers and she was his. Not only because he had saved her, but because he respected her for more than just her noble birth. He saw her as more than her claim, more than just the Princess she was.

With these thoughts swirling through her head, she jumped in shock when a rough hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Princess, your mother has summoned you to her solar. She wishes to speak to you in private," he rasped, obviously displeased at having to interrupt her at her supposed prayer. She gave him a tight smile and rose gracefully from the root she has been perched on for the last hour. Then, she took his arm and allowed him to escort her towards her mother.

It filled her heart with joy to see Winterfell full of northmen and Stark loyalist. To see the household go about their daily chores and the children running about. She longed to run free too, but she held herself in check for propriety's sake. It was bad enough that the first thing she has asked her king when she was delivered was not a warm bath and a soft featherbed, but for her scarred, turncloak companion and protector to be named her sworn shield. Back then there had been nothing improper between the two, but she could not live with the idea of letting her fervent protector go. So she held herself together and exuded nothing but ladylike grace. It was only with Sandor and Arya that she could show her true nature. After King's Landing she no longer wished to be a proper little lady that followed everything she was ordered to do and only thought of her duty to others. She longed to do what pleased her, not her family. She wanted to run and laugh, she wanted to kiss Sandor where all could see, she wanted to tell Robb that she would never marry. But alas, she could not.

Before long they were approached by the slim figure of Arya, her split skirts swishing around her thin, strong legs as she moved forth with purpose.

"Sansa! Robb's bannermen and their sons are here," she hissed with vehement distaste in her voice. Arya ardently hated the idea of having to marry just as much as Sansa did.

"It makes sense since mother wishes to speak to me," her face twisted in disdain,"probably another speech on my duty to Robb and our House." She had received the first of many such speeches not days after her arrival. Of course the first course of action after placating her demands regarding Sandor was having her maidenhood accessed, because her worth entirely depended on her still being a maiden. She smiled inwardly on having at least denied them _that_ pleasure, not that they would ever know of her dishonourable conduct. Her future husband was like to not know where to even stick his manhood and would never know the difference between Sansa and a maiden. How could anyone doubt her innocence? She would never sabotage her brother like that, because to everyone else Sansa was a mindless creature that only ever did her duty.

"Do you think they'll force us to choose this time?" Arya's brow furrowed in concern."We've managed to put it aside the last few times but..." she trailed off, letting her hands show her desperation. If It was solely up to her, she would slit the throat of any man who dared lay claim on her, but she was mindful of Robb and his grip on the crown. He did do his duty after all, what makes them think they can shirk theirs? Everyone had heard the tales of Robb's tryst with the Westerling girl, and Arya could not imagine the strength it took Robb to put his honor before the girl's and not marry her and instead a Frey.

"I don't know, maybe," Sansa answered her honestly. She could not lie to her sister. She could only be brave, a wolf, and face the future head-on."I need to go now. I'll see you at dinner." She gave her upset sister a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder and then let Sandor continue to lead her into the castle, through the corridors, and into her mother's chambers. Her mother smiled warmly at the sight of her sweet daughter. That smile withered and died when she noticed Sandor and the way his arm was entwined with Sansa's. He immediately wrenched it out of her grasp as if she was on fire and took a few steps back, and Sansa cursed herself silently for forgetting that Sandor was not her equal and should never have walked alongside her instead of behind her. Her mother's lips remained pursed, but she no longer looked like she had eaten a sour lemon.

"Sandor, you may stand outside. I am quite safe in here." She turned and gave him a smile she knew he would not return. Instead her rasped a curt "little bird" and stalked out the room. Sansa turned back to her mother and then joined her near the hearth, taking a seat across from Catelyn, who had been working on her needlework before Sansa had arrived. She set said needlework down on the table next to her and clasped her hands together, ready to speak to Sansa about her impropriety.

"Sansa, you are too familiar with that man. It is not proper for you to touch him so. And he musn't call you that absurd pet name, you are a Princess and a Stark, not some little bird," she reprimanded in that stern voice Sansa has not missed during her time away. Sansa simply eyed her cooly and crossed her ankles.

"He is my sworn shield and protector. He can call me whatever pet name he wishes as long as it has mine own consent and so far I have raised no objections," she pauses to look around the solar for any signs of a surprise guest and found none,"what was so important that my prayers were disrupted?" Her tone was gentle enough to soften the harshness of the enquiry.

"You most likely already heard that your brother's bannermen and their heirs have taken residence in Winterfell and will remain here until your nameday feast. There has been many offers for your hand and I would like to ask you to keep an open mind about some of these men. I know you had your heart set on Queen, but there is some good men to take into consideration." It stung Sansa when her mother brought up her foolish childhood desires, but she made no interruption to her mother's speech. "Robb and I are still trying to find you the best matches, but once we have we need you to give them a chance. Court them, respectfully, and get to know them. Maybe you'll even fall in love." Her mother finished by reaching for her hand and enveloping it with both of hers. _How can I fall in love when my heart already belongs to another?_ She felt like crying but returned her own forced smile.

"I will try, mother. I know my duty, even if it makes me miserable. I will let them court me, but ultimately your hand will force mine." She would not lie about her feelings towards marrying someone. She made her disdain towards men widely know and at this point everyone in the North knew that the Princess in the North detested the idea of marriage. 

"Sansa, please don't make this harder than it is. Do you think I take joy in your suffering? Do you think Robb wants to force you to do your duty? We as highborn women are born with this responsibility, and our happiness has nothing to do with the carrying out of it. Please think about making wise choices, my dear. You may go now." And with that she released Sansa's hand and returned to her needle work, as if she has not just asked Sansa to rip out her heart and stomp on it.

Sansa vacated the chair and then the room, Sandor following her as she fled to her bedchamber. He followed just behind, although she knew he could walk faster than her if he wanted to.

When she stood outside her door she turned to him. He instinctively drew closer when he noticed the tears in her eyes, but restrained himself from cupping her face or embracing her. But that's exactly what she needed right now. She reached for his hand and pulled him into her room meeting no resistance from his part.

Once inside she bolted the door and walked into his strong arms, arms which were ready to envelop her in a loving embrace. His scent of sweat, steel, and horse calmed her almost immediately. It was so him, and how could she not love something that was so uniquely his? She looked up to meet his heavy gaze, snaked a small hand up behind his neck, and drew his lips towards hers. The kiss was tender at first, only a simple joining of lips, but soon it was hungry and passionate, escalating towards something more. Through her thick dress she could feel his stiff manhood against her belly, causing a hot desire to pool in her lower regions. She reached a hand down and rubbed him through his breeches. At this he tore away from her and made to move towards the door. But then her hand was on him, pulling him back to her with a force she didn't know she had.

"No. I need you inside of me. Make me yours. I command you." Her voice was guttural, painfully honest. He growled as he pushed her against the wall and claimed her lips again. They were rough and demanding, but they made her toes curl nonetheless. He kneaded her breasts and trailed wet kisses down her pale, slender throat, making a rush of wet heat invade her smallclothes. _This feels so good. He feels so good._ She could feel his desire against her and grinded against it slowly, mercilessly, eliciting a choked groan from Sandor. He was ripping her laces then, pulling up her skirts in a clumsy state of passion. She rubbed him again and then unlaced his breeches deftly, anticipating his length driving into her.

Sandor lifted her up and she wrapped her long legs around his hips, opening herself up. She loved when he took her like this, so caught up in his passion that he couldn't wait to get her on a bed. He kissed her as he slid into her slick folds, drawing a low moan from her. Then he was rocking his hips, slowly, almost leisurely. It drove her wild. "Harder," she moaned. He gave her that twisted smile she adored and kept the same torturous pace. "Harder what?" He teased her with one hard thrust. "Fuck me harder." He followed her orders eagerly, pumping into her hard and fast, pushing her into the wall with every powerful thrust of his hips. Her string of moans grew closer together until it was one long wail of ecstasy. This made him drop his mouth to her neck, sucking so hard that it was almost painful, but intensifying the pleasure tenfold. "I love you. I love you. I love you," she panted breathily and somehow he pistoned into her even faster. The blazing heat of her desire built up and up until she felt she might burst, and then she did. Pleasure spread through her body, in every nerve as her walls contracted around his cock. She was riding the waves of her release when he joined her with a long grunt and spilled his seed buried deep within her.

Their breathing evened as they came down from the high and then he slid out of her with a wet sound, stuffed his cock back in his breeches, and laced himself up. He glanced at Sansa's shredded laces and the corner of his ruined mouth curled in amusement.

"Guess you'll have to put on a new dress, little bird." She loved the raspy drawl of his voice, it's lazy tone making her heart flutter. She returned his smile and drew him closer with her arms around his neck. "And who's fault is that?" she teased and kissed him lightly. She loved his kisses. He cupped her cheek gently and she could see the softness in his eyes for a moment, but then he drew the loving Sandor back and was serious again. "This was dangerous, little bird. You're lucky no one came to see if you were alright. Your handmaidens will be here soon to dress you for dinner, I'll see you then." He whirled around, unbolted the door, and slipped out, leaving her alone against the wall.


	2. Sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so some of the characters that will appear in this fic aren't supposed to be alive (oops), but were necessary for the sake of storytelling. Sorry if that bothers you! I threw in a bit of fluff, hope you enjoy <3

Chapter 2: Sandor

He awoke in the soft light of dawn, limbs entwined with those of his little bird. He knew the maids would be here soon to ready her for the day, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her sleeping form just yet. _We're playing with fire._ It wasn't the first time he wearily thought of the danger their near treasonous love affair brought to them. _She's destined for greater things, things that don't include a hideously scarred, crude, turncloak second son of a minor house_. He ran a calloused thumb across one of her high cheekbones, the caress feather light and gentle, and marveled at how this radiant beauty chose him when no one had ever done so before. She, who was once to become the Queen of Westeros. This was the same little girl who used to blanch at the sight of his ugly face and dote over the Knight of Flowers. But that was before her golden Prince cut off her damned honorable father's head and gifted it to her alongside those of her dear Septa and loyal household, before King's Landing popped the bubble that was her girlhood dreams and youthful innocence. On some level it hurt him to think that she would never again harbor that sweet naivety that first drew him in.

"Sandor," she cooed as she blinked her eyes drowsily, those eyes he loved so much, their vivid blue reminding him of sapphires. Those same eyes now looked at him, lids heavy from a lack of sleep, with an intensity that almost knocked the breath from his chest. How could he ever let her leave him? He was hers and she was his, and if it was up to him it would remain that way for all time. But it was not up to him, it was up to King Robb.

"Yes, my love?" He smoothed a hand over the top of her head and placed a soft kiss to her forehead, drawing a contented sigh from her sweet mouth. She burrowed deeper into his side and placed a kiss on his chest, right above the heart that beat solely for her, the heart that longed only to serve her and hold her as long as it possibly could.

"I don't want to go to the the feast," she mumbled into his chest, then looked back up at him with a wry smile on her face,"maybe we can slip out for a walk and simply disappear." He returned her smile and slid his arms around her, squeezing her tight.

"If only, little bird, if only." He released her to sit up and stretch his muscles, while she laid there and oggled him like a slab of choice meat. Sansa propped herself up on an elbow and watched him slip out of her warm bed to wander around the room and pick up his discarded clothes, which were spread out around the room unusually due to his ravenous little bird and her wandering hands."You just couldn't keep your hands to yourself, could you?" She giggled and threw a pillow at his behind, and a cloud of feathers surrounded him not long after.

When he was fully dressed and she was in her robe he gathered her up in his arms once more and gave her a tender kiss. She playfully pushed him towards the heavy wooden door afterwards.

"You know, one good thing that'll come from this feast is I'll get to see those pretty teats of yours in a tight dress." He grinned as she rolled her eyes and closed the door in his face.

\- - -

"Are you _really_ going to let them marry Sansa to some northman?" Arya's nose wrinkled at the idea of seeing her sister married off to someone that was not her sworn shield, whom she was madly in love with. It was mid-afternoon, just a few hours before the feast was to begin. Sandor continued to run the whetstone along the edge of the blade of his sword, ignoring the she-wolf's question. It was not his decision, and it was not safe to talk about his relationship with Sansa out in the open air of the training yard, which could very well carry their treasonous secret straight into the ear of the King or his mother. The outcome of that happening was sure to involve his head on a spike.

"We could just leave and sail across the narrow sea to some free city. Maybe Braavos! I know a Faceless man," she finished with a smug smile, as if it was some great feat to know a world-class assassin, which in her case it was. Sandor knew the wild little she-wolf sought vengeance against all who did her family wrong, and there was no doubt from his part that she was capable of learning how to deliver that vengeance. Maybe some day she would mount Joffrey's head above the hearth in the Great Hall, after all.

"Stop that crazy talk, little wolf. We aren't leaving. You're to remain right here until your kingly brother sees it fit to marry you and your wild sister off." It pained him to think of the fast-approaching day that she would officially become someone else's, but he had to get used to the idea. If not, he didn't know how he would stand the day. _And she probably wants you to remain her sworn shield and follow her to her new home to see her fall in love with someone else._ He knew that if it came to that, he would do it, because he would do anything she asked him to do. Even if it killed him.

Arya, who had previously been sitting atop the fence of the yard, leapt down and stood in front of Sandor, who was leaning against the fence and still sharpening his sword as if he hadn't just said the most stupid thing ever, at least in Arya's opinion. She crossed her arms and furrowed her brow in anger.

"Can't you see that she'll be miserable, you stupid!? At least I can defend myself, she'll just have to do whatever she's bid and live her life like some sort of puppet. It'll be King's Landing all over again." Sandor stopped to look at her stormy grey eyes and fierce countenance. _Well, she'll definitely hold her own with her lord husband._

"Your brother will marry her to a good man. He knows she's been through enough already. And these bloody northmen are more honorable than the buggering lot back at King's Landing," he growled. She would not be treated as she was at King's Landing. Here in the North she is a Princess, and not only that but also a _Stark_ , blood of the first men and the Kings of Winter. Her future husband would have to be without wits to mistreat the Stark Princess. Arya huffed and drew her sword, a slim blade that resembled her lost Needle, the argument forgotten for now.

"Let's see what you've got, Hound." And then they began a song of steel. At first Arya had the upper hand, darting around Sandor's heavy frame, slipping in and out of tight spots, but eventually Sandor's swings gained more and more strength, strength that her skinny arms could not hope to reciprocate. So eventually, after many swings back and forth and a good training session, Sandor knocked the blade from her hand and delivered the faux death blow to the little wolf.

"You're getting better, little wolf. But you've still got a ways to go if you still hope to kill me." He ruffled her mop of dark hair, much to her chagrin, and they left the training yard together in hopes of finding Sansa.

They found her sitting in front of her vanity, her handmaidens fluttering about trying to ready her for the nameday feast held in her honor. The maids looked absolutely scandalized when Sansa welcomed him into the room even though she was partially undressed. _If only they knew I've seen and kissed every inch of that creamy skin._ But they didn't, and hopefully it would remain that way.

"Arya!" Sansa was appalled at her little sister's unruly appearance, her hair matted and damp with sweat and her tunic and breeches stained and dusty.

"Yes, sweet sister?" Arya had the audacity to flash the clearly vexed Sansa an innocent smile. Sandor knew it was time to interject, or the situation would escalate beyond his or anyone else's control.

"I told her you wanted her bathed and dressed, maybe even have that bird's nest she calls hair combed," he paused when Arya punched his shoulder and the maids attending Sansa gasped at his insolence," but she wouldn't bloody listen. She wanted to train instead." Arya scowled at being ratted out by her friend, and Sansa raised one arched eyebrow at him.

"You want me to believe that a 13 year old girl forced you to train with her?" Sandor wanted to kiss the amused smile on her full lips, but it would be suicide to do so with these buggering maids hanging on to every word he said to her. So instead he snorted and crossed his arms.

"I wasn't going to turn down an offer to put her in her place." Arya punched him yet again, but it was worth the sweet tinkle of Sansa's laughter. He eyed her open-mouthed laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, and decided that he'd never seen a sight more beautiful than Sansa Stark. When she gained her composure she reminded Arya that she needed to look like a proper lady tonight and then dismissed her.

"Will you escort me to the Great Hall in an hour or so, Sandor?" She flashed him a sweet smile then turned back to the vanity, looking at her curled auburn hair, the jewels embedded in it sparkling wildly. She was definitely a sight for sore eyes. "I'll be back then, little bird." The maids shot him one last dirty look before he left the room.

\- - -

When he arrived at her chambers and saw her in all her noble beauty, he almost forgot how to breathe. She was infinitely beautiful in a richly embroidered dress of deep plumm, her curls framing her lovely face, and a necklace of amethysts draped around her slender throat. He was speechless as she took his arm and gave him a coy smile.

"So I take it you like my dress. Do my teats look sweet enough in it?" He leaned in to her ear and whispered in a gravely voice all the things he wished to do to her that night, eliciting such a maidenly blush, as he escorted her to her family and fellow northmen to celebrate her nameday and find a good match.


	3. Arya

Chapter 3: Arya

Arya sat at the dais with her chin resting on her palm, her too-tight dress and adorned hair making her feel awkward and severely out of place. She cursed the Gods and her family for making her dress so finely and so unlike herself. She might have appeared a proper lady to the naked eye had she not worn a petulant expression and botched every attempt at pleasantries with the nobility around her. _Sandor better get me out of this._ He owed her for the other day, when he and her wanton sister decided they absolutely needed to go at it in the middle of the day, and Arya had to cover for the both of them. _Those two are like a pair of rabbits._ She shook her head to try and rid her mind of the disturbing images that clouded it at the thought of Sansa and her sworn shield alone in her bedchamber.

Her eyes wandered round the room, taking in the festive decorations and the beautifully dressed guests. Her brother Robb sat further up the dais, fidgeting in his seat, making his young age shine through his regal mask, and looking as uncomfortable as the young girl next to him. _Queen Roslin._ She sat at his side, dressed in lavish silks and wearing a dainty crown upon her head, looking undoubtedly miserable. Of course she would feel so, for she had been ripped away from her home, no matter how horrible, only to be thrust into a stranger's bed and then hauled to the frigid North, where boisterous men and proud women surrounded her on all sides. _She probably misses the warm rains and soft people of the Riverlands,_ Arya thought to herself glumly. She had tried to befriend the girl when she had first returned to Winterfell, but Roslin was terified of anything and everything and Arya did not have time to waste on insipid little mouse girls. She had been a mouse for a time and wanted no reminders of how she had betrayed the wolf in her and traded in her sharp claws to cower and creep through Harrenhall.

Her eyes slid further down the table, to where the Greatjon and his son were situated, and watched on in amusement as the two bickered over war tactics in loud voices that resonated throughout the Great Hall. She loved how loud and loose the Greatjon was, and respected him for his unquestionable loyalty to her brother and House. She had no doubt Robb was considering his son as a potential match for either herself or Sansa. As if reading her mind, her sister leaned in to her ear and whispered her similar thoughts on the Smalljon being a clear candidate for their hands.

 _He's not too bad_ , Arya thought, as her eyes skimmed over his strong Northern features, broad shoulders, and strong arms. He had been nothing but courteous when greeting her at the beginning of the feast, and Arya found that she wouldn't mind much if Robb sought to marry her to him. She took a sip of her sour wine and then continued to push her food around her plate with her fork, counting the seconds until she could retreat to her chambers and take a dagger to her wretched dress, nevermind the soft silk and Myrish lace that Sansa loved so much. For a second she thought bitterly on the easy perfection of her sister, until she remembered that she wasn't that stupid little girl with her head full of fantasies any longer. That now she was strong and smart, and instead of taking a lover that was handsome and courteous, something from one of those stupid songs she had loved as a girl, she took a scarred, uncouth Hound to her bed. She was still trying to wrap her head around the idea, if she was to be completely honest, but she saw the change in both her sister and Sandor and could not deny that their love made them better versions of themselves for all the grief it caused them.

"Oh, I hope there is good dancers amongst the men gathered here," Sansa sighed around a mouthful of honeyed duck, and Arya could not help but snicker at her sister's major faux pas.

"Dear sister, your manners are most atrocious this evening. A lady should never speak with her mouth full," she reprimanded with a teasing grin, and Sansa rolled her eyes and smacked her upper arm. Arya narrowed her eyes and recoiled as if Sansa was a dangerous animal, which she was in all honesty.

"You're one to talk. Our Septa, may the Gods give her peace, would be completely ashamed at your horrendous posture, little sister," she pointed at her-admittedly- unladylike posture with a smile on her pretty face, although it was tinged with a bit of resigned sadness, most likely at the memory of her beloved Septa, who had always favored Sansa for her natural poise and past docile nature. Arya stuck out her tongue at Sansa, trying to keep the mood light and divert her attention from the haunting thoughts she could already imagine congealing in her brain, but before she could even form a retort in her wicked little mind, Robb was standing, moving towards his beautiful little sister with grace.

"Will you do me the honor of the first dance, sweet sister?" He held out a hand towards a beaming Sansa, who took it graciously and allowed him to lead her to the center of the Great Hall, where the dancing would take place as soon as Sansa and Robb finished their dance. As it was her nameday and she was Princess, she would receive the honor of beginning the dance alongside the King. Arya knew she would be bid to dance soon, and wriggled in tense anticipation. She didn't exactly hate dancing, as long as she had a suitable partner, but more than like she would spend most of the night whirled round the dance floor by knights and young lords who had a mind to discreetly grope at her budding breasts rather than match her graceful dancing, second only to Sansa's.

She observed her siblings closely, noticed how Robb was speaking into Sansa's ear whenever he could, how Sansa colored a deep red at whatever Robb was telling her. Then, near the end of the dance, she went as pale and waxen as the moon, and her dainty steps became heavy, wooden motions that did not become her whatsoever. Arya bit her lip, knowing that whatever her siblings had just exchanged was not good. As soon as Robb let go of Sansa, another man was there to try to make do with her clumsy, absent-minded movements. Arya felt bad for Sansa. It must've been very unpleasant for her to simply let her armor of courtesy and grace slip out of her hands.

Suddenly there was a wall of flesh obscuring her view of the dance floor, now filled with dancers flitting about joyously. She looked up to see a blotchy, oily weasel face framed with lank, dry hair, a queer smile on his wormy lips. She glimpsed the flayed man on his doublet and instantly deduced that this was the twisted Bastard of Bolton.

"Princess Arya, would you care to dance with me?" He offered her a fleshy hand, which she accepted with a quiet revulsion. It would be unseemly to reject him for no reason, and as long as he kept his hands to himself she wouldn't have to geld him. He escorted her to the congregation of dancers and they fell into step awkwardly, making Arya sigh inwardly as she steeled herself to deal with yet another horrid dancer. Arya did not pretend to be some gracious lady, and did not move to make conversation, something her mother would definitely disapprove of. Something told her though, that her mother wouldn't really mind in this case, considering this was the demented bastard who forced Lady Hornwood to marry him and then left her to starve and chew her own fingers off before dying a slow, painful death. She had only met the poor woman once, but she knew she had not deserved such a miserable and sick end. Ramsay stared at her with pale, dirty ice chip eyes, sending worms crawling through her stomach.

"Your sister is quite lovely. Excuse my forwardness, but I'm sure we would make a fine match. My father has asked the King for her hand, and it would be an insult to turn him down after all he has done for him," his wormy lips quirked up again, but the smile did not reach those filthy eyes of his. Arya resisted the urge to laugh at his presumption that he, a bastard born of rape, could ever even touch her sweet sister, who was kind and beautiful and nowhere near him in station. Her sister, whom she would gladly give the world to if she could.

"That sort of logic implies that my brother must needs give Sansa to all of his loyal bannermen, which is not possible and absurd. He will give her to someone of her choosing, and I am beyond sure she will not choose someone as pompous and outreaching as you." The wormy smile on his face spread further even as his obscenely pale eyes hardened. Arya shuddered unconditionally, and cursed herself for giving him the pleasure of knowing he had succeeded in jarring her strength.

"Mayhaps he'll give you to me." Arya pulled away from his arms abruptly and wormed her way through the crowd, needing to get away from the crazy bastard behind her, the loud clamor making her skull throb beneath her scalp, the scent of roast meat and heady wine. She needed to get away from it all. On her route to escape she bumped into a tall figure, hoping beyond hope that it was Sandor come to rescue her like he had those many months ago when she had been a highborn hostage of the Brotherhood without Banners. It was not. Instead the concerned face of Jon Umber, heir to Last Hearth, floated above her. _This is just bloody perfect._

"Princess Arya, are you well?" His sincerity did not crumble under her scrutiny, so she simply shook her head and moved to escape the Great Hall and flee to her chambers. But then there was a strong, callused hand on her shoulder, steering her towards one of the exits. A sudden panic flared within her. She was powerless against this formidable warrior, her weapons unable to fit in with her dumb attire and her small form in no way capable of denying him anything he sought to take from her. _I'm losing my mind._ The Umbers were proud and honorable, he would not harbor malignant intentions toward Arya, who was only a young girl in truth, no matter how dutifully she trained or how vicious she was towards others.

"Where are you taking me?" He did not answer her question as he dragged her through a door and into the dark winter night, snowflakes swirling prettily around her. She was only wearing an impractical silk dress, and the cold air worked its way into her bones and made her shudder fiercely. The Smalljon noticed and promptly draped his own heavy cloak on her slight frame, the instant warmth making a sigh escape her lips. Her cheeks colored with warmth when he chuckled at her obvious display of gratitude. She turned to him then, and raised one bold brow at him.

"I hate it in there. Thought I'd rescue you on my way out, you looked pretty scattered," he eyed her wearily, probably fearing an outburst as she had just been acting insane a few moments ago. She smiled at him reassuringly and took a few steps towards the Keep, where she could finally rip off her intolerable dress and sleep the horrible night away. _Well, it wasn't all that bad,_ she thought, as she looked at him from beneath her long lashes.

"Thank you. The Bastard was talking about how he would marry Sansa, and it unsettled me. Goodnight, Lord Jon." She was almost out of hearing distance when she heard him mutter something. She turned back to

* * *

see him looking up towards the night sky, bright stars twinkling down at them. "What was that?" She tried her best to be ladylike and courteous around him, as she thought it a possibility that she would have to marry this man one day. He looked at her for one long moment, then took a breath and repeated himself. "Of course, anything for my future good-sister."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most fics I read make Roslin and Robb happy, so I decided to be a special snowflake and make their situation a bit more realistic (don't hate me pls). Also, ew Ramsay. Still haven't fully grasped the Arya mindset, but I tried my best.


	4. Sansa

Chapter 4: Sansa

Her broken heart continued to splinter as his lips fluttered over her closed eyelids, her tear-streaked cheeks, the pulse at the base of her long white throat. His left hand was exploring the silky strands of her fiery hair and his right was cradling the side of her face. _How will I live without these tender kisses?_ Her knuckles were white from gripping onto his tunic so hard, as if she was afraid someone would pull them apart at any second. _That's because they can and_ _will,_ she thought with a fresh wave of bitter anguish. She thought that maybe if she didn't let go, they couldn't actually take him from her. Then reality washed over her like icy water and set off another bout of sobs.

"Shh, little bird. Hush now. It'll all be well," Sandor's rough voice whispered near her ear. At that she opened her eyes quickly, and stared at his ruin of a face. Oh, how she loved his face, loved everything about it. She cupped his burned cheek, and his eyes flickered shut. It amazed her how this tortured soul, who had been kicked around all his life, could trust her so entirely not to shatter him completely. She studied him for a moment longer then spoke in a broken voice.

"How can you say that? How can you possibly say that when my brother has just announced he is destroying everything we've built together?" Sansa's voice grew louder alongside her scorn. "How can you even stand the thought of any man taking me from you?" She was well and truly angry by the end of her interrogation, feeling the flames of her fury lick at her nerves. She snatched her hand away from his face and pushed him away from her, almost knocking him over in his stupor. "And you're just going to let him! You said that I was yours, but you haven't done anything to prove it. You stand here and tell me everything will be well. Tell me, how can it truly be well if they rip the love of my life out of my arms?" There was fresh tears of despair spilling out of her Tully blue eyes, eyes that were livid and heartbroken at the same time. She flew at him, hitting and sobbing with all her might as all of her emotions came pouring out of her like a volcano erupting.

Then his hands were on her wrists, clamping down painfully, trying to stop her crazed motions. She knew she had absolutely lost it, but why not lose her mind alongside everything else. She looked up through blurry eyes, and the girl she used to be would have been scared witless at the expression on Sandor's face.

"Do you think I want this to happen? I should've never let you get into my head. You knew this would happen eventually. I should've thought with the head on my _shoulders_ , but the past is the past and I will not deny that you have made me happier in these last few months than I have ever been my whole life. Damn you," he growled and released her abruptly as tears leaked out of his charcoal eyes. He was facing away from her now, shoulders shaking as he too lamented how their world was falling down around them. It was only earlier today, a week after her nameday feast, that her brother had made good on his promise and announced her betrothal to Jon Umber, Heir to Last Hearth, to all of Winterfell.

He was kind and noble, the kind of husband she had longed for when she was young and unbroken to the cruelties of the world, and it made her hate him all the more that she could not find fault in him other than the fact that he was not the man she loved, the man who had saved her and taught her what it was to love someone more than herself, more than she thought it possible to love another human being.

That man now stood a few feet away from her, bursting at the seams, and seeing him suffer just as much as she was drove her to reach out a dainty hand to him. Moments later she was in his arms again, kissing him with wild abandon, trying to physically pour all of her love for him into one simple show of affection. He kissed her back with a fervent passion, and deep in the pit of her stomach she knew he was trying to do the same as her, no matter how impossible, as the love they shared was infinite. She pushed him gently towards her large featherbed, and clambered up atop him when his back hit the mattress with a soft thud. Then, they were yanking at fabric and tugging at laces frantically, needing to have nothing between their bodies.

For all their rush to be free of the constraints of their clothing, when they were fully naked their hands explored gently, slowly and their kisses were languid. Sandor turned them over. He hovered over her small frame as he worshipped the column of her throat and proceeded to do the same to her soft round breasts. She hummed with pleasure beneath him, and then she was pulling him up, needing him inside her, where he belonged. He returned to her throat, kissing up its long length and then pressing his lips to every inch of her face before satisfying her silent plea.

She sighed as he sunk into her warmth, savoring the familiar feeling of having him sheathed inside her. Their coupling was long and tender, driving them both to the edge before pushing them over and into the abyss of their ecstasy, and soothed their frayed nerves in a way no words could dare match. Afterwards they curled into each other, and murmured their love again and again.

\- - -

"We will begin planning the wedding within a week or so. Then we'll begin working on the dress and fashioning you a new bride's cloak-" Sansa tuned out of her mother's plotting, instead she chose to replay the events of the night prior in her mind. She nearly blushed at the thought of the night of passion she and Sandor had shared in order to sooth their minds of the emotional trauma brought upon by the impending doom that was her wedding. It was nearly noon, and Sansa sat in her brother's solar, listening -or not- to her mother and brother's plans for Sansa's near future.

"Sansa, are you listening?" Robb, who sat at the head of the table in his warm solar, looked at her with a look of concern laced with annoyance. _That's all I am to him. An annoyance he feels the need to get rid of._ Ever since their wretched dance at her feast their relationship had been strained. She could not easily forget how he had reprimanded her attitude towards performing her duty, how he had threatened to take Sandor away from her. For a second, as she was being spun around in time with the sweet music, her blood turned to ice in her veins as she thought he had learned of their affair. But then he had elaborated that he thought them close friends and would not hesitate to separate them as punishment, to her partial relief. She wished she could fly out of the room, the heat and tension in the room making her head fuzzy. She put on her mask of courtesy, and replied that she _had_ been listening.

"So do you agree?" Robb looked weary of her response, which made her stomach twist in knots. Clearly he expected her to lash out, and that made her certain she would not like his idea. She searched for a way to worm out of the situation, to answer without revealing that she had not been listening to them speak.

"I don't know..." She slid her eyes down to her clasped hands, doing her best to appear reluctant in whatever matter they wished for her to settle. She decided that the safest course of action was having them try to persuade her. Robb did not look surprised by her reluctance, but her mother looked as if Sansa had disappointed her greatly. _So it_  is _something I won't like._ She looked away from them, once again wishing she could sprout wings and fly through the open window.

"How can you question this, Sansa? It makes all the sense in the world." Her mother spread her hands. "It would allow the both of you to get to know one another, a luxury most highborn maidens are not so lucky to have. Lord Jon seems perfectly fine with the idea of residing at Winterfell until it comes time for the wedding." Sansa could only focus on her mother's lack of knowledge on the present state of her maidenhead for a second before she grasped the decision at hand. Robb wanted for the Smalljon to stay at Winterfell so that he may court Sansa. _Well, he has another thing coming,_ Sansa thought with a feeling of loathing towards her brother's foresight. He had no idea, though, that her heart was irrevocably taken by another, and that no amount of wooing would make her be a proper lady and accept her betrothed with dutiful obedience.

"I simply don't want him around. Is it not enough that I must spend the rest of my life with him? Why must my misery begin so early?" She crossed her arms, as unladylike a gesture as she dared. Robb rolled his eyes and her mother looked mortified at her lack of manners and courtesy, something she had never lacked before she was sent to King's Landing, but that was then, and it was as if her mother refused to believe that Sansa was not that stupid little girl who had left Winterfell with her head full of songs and unrealistic expectations of the snake pit that was King's Landing. Sansa was so deep in her thoughts that she missed seeing Robb get to his feet.

"I only sought to be kind and give you a chance to make the right choice, but it seems that I placed too much hope in you. It pains me to have to treat you like a child, Sansa. Lord Jon will remain at Winterfell, and you will entertain his company whenever he wishes it." With that said, he turned and entered his private chambers, effectively dismissing Sansa, who was vexed and hurt by her brother. Her brother, who seemed a stranger to her more and more with every passing day.

"Come, Sansa. Let us walk for a bit." Her mother stood gracefully and promptly offered a slender arm. Sansa took it wearily and followed her mother's leisurely pace as she guided them out of Robb's solar and into Winterfell's halls. Sansa was glad to finally be free of the stifling heat of the room, but her joy was short-lived. Her mother guided her straight towards the library, and when inside she steered them towards the only person in the vicinity.

"Good day, Lord Jon. Are you enjoying the scrolls here?" The young man looked up at the women, and Sansa did not fail to notice how his eyes widened slightly at the sight of her standing there before him. She wished he was not so perfect, for it made her feel worse for not feeling anything pleasant towards him. But how could she not dislike him? This was the man who stood between her and her happiness. Her Sandor. The thought of him made her duck her head to hide her blush, lest Lord Jon think it was meant for him.

"Greetings, Lady Stark," he inclined his head towards her mother and then turned his dark eyes towards her," Princess. There's many scrolls of interest, I find it hard not to enjoy browsing though them." He flashed them a charming smile, making Sansa feel even more dislike for the warrior. As she surveyed his broad shoulders and brawny arms, she found herself thinking that Sandor could easily best him in a swordfight.

"Yes, Winterfell boasts one of the largest collections of ancient scrolls in Westeros," her mother informed him with a fond smile on her face, then she shook her head to dismiss whatever memories swirled through her mind, and excused herself in order to leave the two young people alone to get to know one another, much to Sansa's dismay. When Sansa could no longer hear the swishing of her mother's skirts she sat across from him on the small table he had been hording scrolls on. The tallow candles flickered and cast strange shadows around the room. He glanced at her and then cleared his throat, amplifying the awkward silence they were wallowing in.

"His Grace tells me that I am to remain here instead of returning to Last Hearth with my father," he said, his hands absentmindedly picking at the edge of a piece of parchment. Sansa was conflicted. She did not know whether she should indulge him or ignore him. After several tense moments of silence she made her decision.

"Yes, he told me the same thing not an hour ago." His shoulders seemed to deflate in what she could only assume was relief. He released the parchment and looked back into her stormy blue eyes. " Although I much rather have you gone." She was genuinely surprised when instead of throwing back an insult, and giving her just reason to hate him, he laughed throatily. Sansa eyed his honest face, listened to his attractive laugh, and knew that in another world, one where her Sandor did not exist, she would have loved to be his lady wife, she would have loved _him_.


	5. Arya

Chapter 5: Arya

Arya wanted to shrivel up into a mouse again. Jon stood before her, tall and glorious, the flat of his sword kissing her pale throat. It had taken her so many days to convince him she would be a worthy opponent, and when he had finally broken and accepted her offer to spar she had butchered it completely. She was never this unsettled when she tested her might against Sandor. Jon's lips were tilted in amusement, his brows raised in question.

"What was all that talk about then, Princess?" She glared up at him, he knew she hated being reminded of her title, and the bloody idiot called her so only to spite her. "Your incessant begging led me to believe you could truly wield a sword." Before she could open her mouth and throw an ugly retort his way, a large figure sidled up to the pair.

"What's this, little wolf?" His deep drawl made Arya swallow back her bitter insult and glare up at him in turn. The lords had taken their leave from Winterfell little more than a week ago, so Sansa had taken to her regular schedule, which included prayer at the Godswood, an activity that afforded Sandor time to spend in the training yard. She had completely forgotten he had been bound to arrive, and having him witness her pitiful swordsmanship multiplied her mortification. Sandor was not only her friend, but also her mentor, for he had taught her how to wield a sword properly, how to defend herself.

"None of your business, Hound," she growled and spun away from the blade Jon had not removed from her throat in his surprise at Sandor's entrance. He lowered the sword and stared at Sandor thoughtfully. Arya took the time to study Sandor and when she glimpsed the beautiful stitching on his tunic her mouth curled into a smile. _My sweet sister_. She had to hand it to Sansa, the Gods only knew how she could abide the painful tedium of needlework, which Arya was notoriously horrid at. _I prefer a different kind of needlework,_ she thought, and reached a hand down to the pommel of her slim sword. Moments later she realized with a pang of sadness that her sword was not the real Needle, now in the filthy hands of Polliver, one of the Mountain's lackeys.

"You're the sworn shield of my betrothed," Jon spoke as he sheathed his sword. Sandor snorted at his statement of the obvious and crossed his arms, giving him a challenging gaze. Only she knew what Jon meant to Sandor, how he was not simply the man who was intended for his Lady. No, this man was here to take something he loved, a piece of him, and claim it as his. It made Arya uneasy, as she knew what Sandor was capable of when aggravated, and this man surely aggravated him.

"Only a bloody fool would miss that. I follow her around all the damn time, boy," Sandor grunted, then moved to the fence and unsheathed his sword in order to sharpen it, and Arya followed, climbing up the fence fluidly and looking down to see how Jon bristled at Sandor's jibe. She hoped he would not fall for the obvious provocation and end up in a fight she knew he could not possibly hope to win.

"I was simply making an observation, ser," he sneered," I meant to ask where she was. I have not spoken to her in days, and if I do not do so soon King Robb will be displeased. The whole reason I am still here is because he wants us to get to know one another," he said bitterly, and kicked at the snow at his feet. Arya could not fathom why he sounded so unhappy to be marrying Sansa. Any man would love to have her. She was beyond beautiful and unfailingly kind, and her claim and noble blood added to her appeal. Arya also knew that her sister was intelligent, but that never mattered to the men who surrounded them.

"She's praying in the Godswood." She pondered how Jon failed to catch how his harsh voice softened with tenderness when he spoke of her sister. Sandor stopped moving his whetstone along the already sharp edge of his sword and looked up at Jon, who still stood in the center of the training yard, mercifully empty of the castle's other inhabitants. "Since you are her intended," his lips curled nastily at the word, most likely at the taste of its significance on his tongue," she might welcome your company." He returned to his redundant task, disregarding the young man he most definitely resented, or at least it seemed that way to Arya, and she was hardly ever wrong when reading people and their feelings. It was because of this uncanny ability that she was able to figure out the relationship between Sansa and Sandor.

"Yes, she always does. Though she doesn't look like she wishes to do so," he said, a perplexed look on his northern features, and Arya pitied him for his ignorance. Only she and Sandor knew that their mother and Robb were forcing Sansa to accept his company without a peep. "If you'll excuse me." He was gone with a whirl of white snow and dark cloak, leaving Arya and Sandor alone in the training yard. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. In the back of her mind she wondered how their relationship had taken such a drastic turn, how she had gone from despising him and even seeking to kill him, to considering him her closest friend alongside Sansa, whom she had always felt that familial sense of loyalty to but never really loved when they had been children.

"It's not too late to run," she whispered softly, something she did not do often since her words were always loud and clumsy. He laughed mirthfully, throwing his head back at the sheer absurdity of her solution, and soon she found herself joining him. The ring of their laughter cut through the eerie silence of the empty training yard. When Arya finally opened her eyes she realized that it was not so empty.

At the entrance of the training yard stood the slender form of Catelyn Stark, her dark and disapproving aura dampening their self-pitying humor. Arya took in the way her mother's Tully blue eyes locked onto her hand on Sandor's shoulder, and decided to keep it there in a silent act of defiance. Her mother flushed a pretty shade of pink, but turned her gaze towards her younger daughter and took a few hesitant steps into the training yard.

"Arya, Robb wishes to speak to you in private." Her words were followed by dread coiling in the pit of Arya's stomach. Robb wanting to speak to either of his sisters never led to anything good. The last time Sansa spoke to him in private she came out with the obligation of having to stand the company of her betrothed, no matter how abhorrent she found it.  _I'll probably come out with my own betrothed on my heels,_ she thought with a grimace. She hopped off the fence and strode towards her mother with the swagger that came from being Arya, sister to the King in the North, a Stark of Winterfell.

She nodded towards her and then continued on into the Keep, only stopping when she stood outside Robb's chambers. She walked into his solar without knocking and found it devoid of Robb or anyone else for that matter. When several moments passed without her brother entering the room, she decided to sit at the table and wait. There was a faint sound coming from the door next to Robb's. _Queen Roslin's Chambers._ She thought that the fact that they resided in separate chambers spoke volumes on the state of their arranged marriage.

For a moment she let herself wonder if Robb would have been happier making the foolish choice of marrying the Westerling girl. He had loved her enough to risk losing his kingdom, and he would have successfully done it if one of his bannermen hadn't caught him and talked him out of the grave mistake that was capable of costing him his head and more. _He'd sure be happier, but he'd also be dead_.

"Arya," Robb's voice floated out from behind her still form. She nearly jumped at the surprise, as deep in her thoughts as she was. She watched her brother as he came around the table and sat across from her, clasping his hands together in a serious gesture. Arya felt like snickering at how adult he looked. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, and she could swear that a hint of a smile flickered over Robb's face before it returned back to its normal serious mask.

"I've been thinking about prospective husbands for you. We've had many losses so the lot to choose from is relatively small," he said, not looking into her dark grey eyes. The dread in her stomach rolled. "The best candidate at the moment is Roose Bolton's son and heir, R-"

"No," she gasped in absolute panic, and rose from her seat," No, Robb! You cannot marry me to tha-that monster. What is wrong with you?" Her eyes narrowed as she backed towards the door, the dread sloshing about, threatening to come out her throat. "We all know what he did to his last wife. How in the seven hells can you even think about giving me to a creature like him? He's a twisted bastard and I will not marry him, not in a million years," she said in a choppy voice as tears of pure helplessness clouded her eyes. She focused on his face and realized the same emotion filled his wide blue eyes. Like that, she thought he almost looked a boy again.

"Arya," he pleaded," you do not understand. Lord Bolton is already cross with me for denying him Sansa's hand. If I do not grant him yours there is no doubt in my mind that he'll revolt. My army is already suffering, it does not need to be divided more. Please, little sister. I beg you." His pitiful pleas fell on deaf ears.

"You do not get to call me that," she growled, hot tears creeping out the corners of her angry eyes. "You sit here and beg me to give up my life. Why? You're selling me like a fucking horse and have the audacity to call me your little sister!?" She spit on the floor, spun on her heels, and walked out of the room, swagger gone.

_\- - -_

Sansa's arms encircled her in a loving embrace, making Arya sigh into her shoulder in momentary contentment. "We can't let him marry her to that vile creature, Sandor," Sansa pleaded to big man, who was currently lounging on her featherbed, observing the spectacle. He had been there when Arya had first burst in the room, disrupting whatever conversation they were having, and cried to her sister, the words of what had just transpired tumbling out of her mouth clumsily.

"I don't know what you want me to do, little bird," he grumbled, and crossed his burly arms. "I can't kill the man, and she can't just disappear." Arya slipped out of Sansa's arms, then turned to her surly friend. Her face screwed up in desperate defiance.

"But I can. We can! I told you, we can run away! We'll make our own life in some free city where you and Sansa can get married and I can do whatever I wish," she cried to his stony expression. Then he was up and moving towards her in an alarming speed. His big paws gripped her small shoulders tightly. She could hear Sansa breathe sharply in the background.

"You don't know what you're saying, girl. It'll be months of travel in this bloody cold, surrounded by men who could find one burned man and two highborn girls easily. They would kill me, and then marry the both of you off instantly. Life is not a song," he growled in her furious face, but she could hear the fright in his raspy voice even as hidden as it was beneath the anger and reproach. She tried to wrench out of his hands, but didn't get very far.

"But I'm willing to try. I'm sure Sansa's willing to try! We'll all be happy if we leave this place. Robb will soon have an heir and we won't have to marry anyone we don't want to," her big wide eyes stared up at his, molten and hopeful at the same time. Of course there would be some ember of hope in his fury. How could he not grasp on to the only alternative they had? She turned to Sansa, ashen and pale, her blue eyes wide at the scene unfolding before her. "Come on, Sansa," Arya told her softly, pushing her to see reason. Her liquid eyes focused and she squared her dainty shoulders.

"I rather die trying to be free than spend the rest of my life in a gilded cage." Sandor stared at Sansa for one long moment, searching for something in her beautiful eyes. Apparently he found what he was searching for because he promptly released Arya and nodded his head.

"Aye," he rasped, and Arya felt so light she could float away, away from her brother and mother, away from her future betrothed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I'd never marry Arya to Ramsay.


	6. Sandor

Chapter 6: Sandor

Sandor felt like punching something, or more accurately, someone. That current someone sat on a weirwood root several feet away from him, his back exposed to Sandor's vehement glare. Sansa looked over Jon's shoulder to meet Sandor's gaze, warning clear in her eyes.

"King Robb informed me this morning that the wedding is taking place in little more than a month," Jon said conversationally as he shuffled crimson leaves with his feet, refusing to meet Sansa's sapphire eyes. _Coward_ , Sandor sneered in his head. It was not enough that he was trying to steal what was his, he also had to act the victim as well, even thought the only victim in this situation was Sansa. Even if Jon did not want to marry her, it was not him that was held to ridiculous standards, not him that was expected to be chaste and proper, to allow himself to be trod upon.

"Oh," his little bird choked out, losing her composure. It hurt him to think that she was still suffering the emotional turmoil of this whole situation. Though he hated to admit it, he was glad they had talked him into spiriting them away from here and to Essos, where they could live freely and do as they pleased. "W-who will be attending?" Sansa smoothed her skirts and readjusted her seated position on her usual wierwood root. He savored the sight of her sitting there, her hair aflame in the afternoon sunlight, looking like a forest nymph, lovely and ethereal. _My Sansa_.

"My family, bannermen, Winterfell's household. King Robb says it will be large enough to be appropriate but not lavish. I don't really care much," he shrugged and continued to drag the leaves around the ground, trying to appear nonchalant, but Sandor could see the tenseness of his shoulders. _The little bird frightens him._ Sandor almost snorted aloud at the idea. Jon Umber was tall, almost as tall as him, and strong besides. He wondered what aspect of Sansa made him so uncomfortable.

"Neither do I," she said dryly, and Jon's shoulders tensed further. _Her sharp tongue it is._ Sandor loved that about her. How she could use her wits to inflict pain on others, even if it was only the emotional kind. Sometimes, when he lay awake at night, Sansa in his arms, and remembered a time when he was only a dog to be kicked and ordered around, he thought that was the worst kind of pain. "If I were to be honest, I don't care much for this wedding either. Mayhaps, since we both agree that it is not something we care for, we should see to its cancellation?" She raised an eyebrow at the large northerner, who simply sighed in exasperation. Their exchanges always ended like this. Sandor noted, though, that he had never once gotten angry at Sansa, no matter how loud she growled or how hard she bit him with her little she-wolf fangs.

Jon rose up from his perch, and moved forward, towards Sansa's sitting form. Sandor stepped out of the trees instinctively, but his step was unheard by the northerner. He continued walking until he stood before Sansa, and then crumpled to his knees, reaching a great big hand towards a soft, delicate one. Sandor was ready to ram his sword through the bloody fool for daring to touch her, but her eyes, which flickered momentarily to his stormy ones, stopped him from doing so. Jon clutched her hand and finally braved looking into her Tully blue eyes, sparkling prettily even in their befuddled state.

"I'm sorry, Princess Sansa. I don't mean to make you miserable. I only mean to do right by my King and by my lord father," he spoke in a gruff tone, his eyes never straying from hers, still wide in shock," and although I am not the husband you want, I vow to be good to you. I promise I will never fail in my duty to take care of you, to stay faithful to you. Together we will fill Last Hearth with children that will take after your beauty and strength, children that will light your life with the joy I cannot bring you myself. And mayhaps, one day, you will finally accept me as I have accepted you," he said, tone soft and saccharine near the end of his speech, and squeezed her hand. Sansa's sapphire eyes were nearly out of her skull now, her mouth a perfect little circle of astonishment.

"I-I," she stammered hopelessly," Lord Jon, I-I didn't-don't know what to say," the words spewed out of her mouth clumsily, and if the situation were any different, Sandor would have roared in laughter at her endearing blunder. Instead he receded back into the shroud of trees and continued to watch the strange spectacle unfolding before him. What happened next made Sandor feel like he had all those months ago, when he had stood with the Lannisters, crazy as they were, and was surrounded by the ghastly green flames of wildfire, thinking only of escape and a certain redheaded maiden he had been desiring for what seemed like ages, a maiden who also needed saving.

Jon reached a hand up to her jaw, cupped the side of her beautiful face, and placed a kiss on her sweet lips. And she let him. She sat there and let the future Lord of Last Hearth kiss her like she had kissed Sandor that very morning. Sandor remained stock still, but deep within his chest, he could feel his massive heart giving way, could feel cracks spreading and splintering. No matter how much it hurt, he could not tear his eyes, eyes hot with fury and betrayal, from Sansa and Jon as they kissed under the canopy of the Weirwood tree.

But then, so quickly Sandor almost missed it, Jon fell over, his blood mingling with the leaves scattered on the ground, groaning in pain. Sansa stood, a red-tipped dagger in hand, sickly pale, and stared at Sandor in quiet, sedated horror, and then Sandor was rushing towards her betrothed, pulling his wriggling bulk into his arms.

"Dammit, girl. I think you've just grievously wounded your intended," he rasped at her pretty panicked face, and watched as she ran away.

* * *

 

"Why would you stab him?" Robb's face was pinched with displeasure, a mirror of his lady mother's expression. He sat atop the Lord's chair in the Great Hall, his mother beside him in the Queen's absence. Sandor and Sansa stood before them, where they had been dragged after Sansa had arrived back at the Godswood with help for Jon Umber, whom she had stabbed in an instinctual act of fear at being assaulted, a fear that originated from the horrors she had been forced to endure in the hell hole that was King's Landing.

"He was acting indecent towards me and I needed to protect my honor," she said in a clipped tone, keeping her gaze on the floor. Sandor wished he could reach out for her slender form, but knew better than to actually do so, especially in front of the man with the power to have his head off his shoulders in an instant. _Bloody kings_.

"For some reason, I don't believe that," he said in a voice tight with frustration and total disappointment. Sansa gaped at her brother, hurt and shock marring her perfect features. "I don't know what to do with you, Sansa," Robb sighed and put his head in his hands in an act of unusual vulnerability. He had been doing so well in keeping his regal mask in place, and that one action reminded Sandor that he was but a young man, freshly grown, pushed into action because an inbred monster decided to chop his noble father's head off.

"You can believe me, because I am telling the truth. He touched me without my consent, right in front of my sworn shield," she pointed a long finger at Sandor, and Robb lifted his head to eye his imposing form beside Sansa's. "Sandor was ready to interfere when he first got too close, but I stopped him because I foolishly trusted Lord Jon not to do anything improper." Her hands fluttered along the intricate bodice of her lovely dress nervously. Sandor tried not to think of getting to rip that dress off her body later, touching the milky, smooth skin beneath.

"But why did you not just push him away? Why did you have to stab him, Sansa? Why did you even have a dagger on your person?" Catelyn spoke up, her voice dripping with reproach and incredulity. Sansa stiffened beside him, probably remembering the daily beatings in King's Landing, the many times Joffrey threatened her maidenhead, and moved to speak, but instead of her high musical voice, Sandor's gravely tone resonated through the hall.

"M'lady, the Princess went through much and more when she was in King's Landing. It was Joffrey's vile threats and orders to beat her that drove me to take her from that place. She acted out of a similar fear," Sandor rasped, trying to spare her the pain of speaking of her demons. Lady Stark blanched, but kept her mouth shut, to Sandor's relief. He could see some of the tension leaving Sansa's body and knew he had made the right call.

"Still, his wound is serious. There is no way he will be well enough for the wedding at this rate. We must postpone it until he is better. That is, if he is willing to marry you anymore," King Robb admitted, his voice bitter at his sister foiling his seemingly meticulous plans. Sandor let his relief calm his nerves. "That means Arya's must take place on the set date instead." Sandor was filled with dread again, quick as that. _Can never get a fucking break._

"Robb, please. You cannot marry Arya to that man. She is much too valuable to waste on someone like him, a bastard born of violence. Please, Robb. Do not marry our little sister to him," she begged, crystal tears trailing down her pink cheeks, her hands clasped before her. Sandor wondered if this was just a mummer's show, or if she was truly begging for her sister, in hopes that they wouldn't really have to run from her home.

"Sansa, I have no other choice," his eyes were wide, silently pleading with his younger sister to understand the position he was in, how he had been backed into a corner. Sandor understood, though it did not mean he approved. If he were in Robb's place he would expose Lord Bolton for a traitor, lop of his head, and give his seat of the Dreadfort to a leal supporter. But he was not. He was simply Princess Sansa's loyal Hound, unthinking and obedient.

"Yes, that is what you keep telling yourself. If you do not trust Lord Bolton, why do you let him live to plot against you or harbor malignant intent towards out family? I do not understand you, Robb. Why do you allow him to continue to be a threat to your rule?" Sansa inched closer to her brother, her face open and earnest, begging to be let into Robb's confidence. Robb opened his mouth, ready to give her answers, but then Catelyn gave him a cross look and it was closed again, his words never to be heard by Sansa, who's crestfallen face just about broke Sandor's heart again. "Oh," she whispered pathetically, and left the Great Hall. Sandor followed after, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

* * *

***mature**

"I love you," she gasped as he thrust into her. He leaned down and trailed kisses down the back of her neck, making her shiver in pleasure.

Her face was against the mattress, rump in the air, and Sandor was above her, taking her like a dog, his thrusts pushing her deeper into her soft featherbed. Her wails of ecstasy were muffled, absorbed by the mattress. Sandor reached a hand down to her heat and found her sensitive nub, rubbing it slowly as he pumped into her faster and faster, falling apart in the face of the pure pleasure her sweet cunt brought him. She came hard, cunt gripping him tight enough to send an electrifying jolt down his spine, and he spilled his seed within her with a roar.

When he came down from his high he pulled out of her and fell onto his back among her silky sheets. She crawled into his muscular arms, nuzzled her flushed face into his neck, and placed a lingering kiss there. "Say it back," she whispered against his hot skin, then opened her mouth and placed an open-mouthed kiss where her words had once been.

"I love you, little bird. I'll always love you," he sighed into the top of her head, kissed her fiery hair. She rubbed her face against his neck once more and then pulled away, rearranging herself so that she lay practically atop of him, big sapphire eyes staring up at his, cloudy and sated.

"What are we going to do?" Her eyes remained locked on his, as if the answers she sought were in there somewhere. He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing, hoping that Sansa would let him sleep after the long day they had shared. "Sandor," she whined, rubbing herself against him, and he could feel his traitorous cock stirring. "We haven't talked about it since that night, and that was more than a week ago! We have to think of a plan now." Sandor closed his eyes for a moment, remembered the months of travel he had shared with the Stark girls, and opened them again with ideas to feed his hungry little bird.

"We'll leave before the damn wedding, sometime during the night, and make good time to White Harbor. It'll probably be a month of hard riding and cold nights, but you and the little wolf are determined to go, so go we shall. Once we get to White Harbor we'll find the first ship to Pentos or Tyrosh. Braavos is nearest, but there's too many bloody Westerosi there for us to go unrecognized for long." She nodded seriously, taking in the plan and offering no protests. Sandor was sure Arya would not do the same, considering the buggering Faceless man she loved reminding him about.

"We should get married in the Godswood before we go," she kissed his hairy chest tenderly," since I don't think we'll find another way to get married in Essos." His heart thrummed with excitement at the thought of her being his in name, something he had never thought possible before. His hand was in her hair then, running through her silky mane. She kissed his chest again and then kissed lower, moving further and further down with every press of her full lips to his skin, aflame with arousal.

Her face hovered above his stiff cock, eyes full of lust staring up at him in the soft candlelight. Her small pink tongue darted out of her mouth and tasted his length, drawing a low moan from Sandor. She circled the tip, and a miasma of pleasure seized him. Sansa smiled coyly, kissed his painfully hard manhood, then opened her mouth wide, taking him in as far as she could. Her warm, wet mouth felt amazing around his cock, sucking and licking with wild abandon, bringing him to the edge of ecstacy. His hand snaked further into her auburn curls, and gripped the back of her head, pushing it down gently. His little bird took the hint and bobbed her head up and down his shaft, pushing him off the edge and plunging him into a world of pleasure. She swallowed his seed greedily then lapped it off his softening manhood, and when she had her fill she crawled back into his arms and whispered her love again before joining Sandor in satisfied sleep.

* * *

 

Sandor slipped from Stranger's saddle, then led the horse to the corner of his stall and brushed him down gently. His faithful steed had withstood so much alongside Sandor, and he could not bear the thought of leaving him behind when they made their escape. _Would it be too bad to bring him along_? Sandor contemplated it some more, but then forced himself to save those thoughts for another day. When he was done caring for his stallion, he grabbed the bundle in the saddlebag, hid it in his cloak, and made his way into the Keep. He made straight for Sansa's chambers and found her inside, needlework in hand and a look of concern on her face.

"Did you get it?" Her voice was tense with fright, fright at being caught, of seeing his ugly head on a spike. Sandor nodded and pulled the bundle of herbs from beneath his cloak, tossing it in her direction softly. She caught it with ease and examined the tea leaves, making sure they were capable of carrying out their claimed purpose: preventing pregnancies. Sansa could not simply ask the maester for moon tea, so she always enlisted Sandor with the task of drawing out a whore in Wintertown and paying for the herbs and silence.

"Thank you," she smiled up at him sweetly, causing a fluttering in the pit of his stomach. _How can she be so beautiful?_ Sandor still struggled to believe that someone as gorgeous and perfect as Sansa could love him, scarred and gruff and bitter as he was. _But I'm loyal, and that's all liege lords need from me._ He watched as Sansa stood and poured water into a kettle. When she neared the hearth a small panic filled him, but she safely placed the kettle over the roaring fire, and when he looked at her sweet face again it was not a ruin of red-hot flesh.

She invited him to sit, so he did, and then she was in his lap, talking about what had transpired at the breakfast table. Apparently the little wolf had decided enough was enough and caused a scene in the dining hall by standing abruptly from her seat, jolting the table and sending food and drink straight into her lady mother's face. "And she did not apologize!" Sansa giggled shamelessly at the brazen deeds of her little sister while Sandor watched in awe of his lady love's easy grace and effortless beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violent Sansa is the best.


	7. Sansa

Chapter 7: Sansa

She stood at the narrow window slit in her bedchamber, looking down at Winterfell's gates and the procession riding through them. Sansa was certain her lady mother, who was wound tight with the task of overseeing the preparations for the wedding, would be relieved at the arrival of the Septon and his escort.

Due to Catelyn Stark's worship of the Seven, Robb had sent for a Septon from White Harbor a month ago to marry Jon Umber and Sansa, as was originally planned, but as a result of her having stabbed her betrothed, their wedding had been postponed. Now, that Septon's immediate purpose in Winterfell was to marry Arya to the Bastard of Bolton in less than four weeks time. _Or at least that's what everyone thinks,_ Sansa smirked to herself, knowing that they would be gone before Ramsay could get his filthy hands on her little sister.

"Is it the bloody Septon?" Sandor encircled her tiny waist from behind and drew her to his wide warm chest, eliciting a sigh of contentment from her. She nodded and pointed down at the old man in the center of the escort, one of the Septons from White Harbor's Snowy Sept. "I wonder how many Manderly men he brought," Sandor murmured into her hair, then kissed the back of her head so softly she almost didn't feel it.

"Not too many, it seems," Sansa contributed absentmindedly and leaned against his strong warrior's body. She had tried to count the men when they had first been admitted through the gate, but then the snow was swirling around, making her count fluctuate wildly, and she gave up with a huff of annoyance. She turned in his arms and pressed her lips to his tenderly, her arms going up and around his neck. He returned the kiss with enthusiasm and squeezed her to the firm planes of his body, making warmth shoot up and down her tall, shapely form. Here, encased in her lover's strong, capable arms, worshipped by her lover's sweet kisses, she felt whole.

A knock at her door sent them reeling in opposite directions, trying to get an appropriate distance between them before whomever was at the door opened it and saw incriminating evidence of their dangerous liaison. Sansa moved to occupy a chair by the hearth with quick, jerking steps while Sandor tried to get near the door in what seemed like a mere second of tense panic.

"Princess Sansa," a maid swung the door open and stepped into the room, beady little eyes darting around hunting for an object of juicy gossip, and when she found none they focused on the floor at Sansa's small, slippered feet. "The Princess Arya begs your attendance at her dress fitting, if it please you." She bowed her head submissively and then exited the room slowly, eyes desperately seeking for any discordance to report to the rest of the maids in order to slander Sansa's reputation. It made her stomach twist in disgust. Her eyes slid towards Sandor, leaning against the stone wall, appearing relaxed and nonchalant. She rose from the chair and moved towards him on light feet, bursting with the exhilaration of narrowly escaping discovery.

"Sandor, will you escort me to my sister's chambers?" He sinply held out a muscled arm in response. She accepted it and followed as he led her towards Arya's chambers, only a few hallways away from Sansa's, a distance which allowed them to sneak into each other's chambers during the night easily to gossip in mischievous whispers or plot misadventures. When they reached the large wooden door,  through which Sansa imagined Arya stood petulantly as seamstresses fussed about, she turned to Sandor and placed a kiss on his thick, burned flesh. He smiled, scars twisting grotesquely, and Sansa gave him an honest smile back, truly loving the sight before her, before he turned and left her now that his duty was fulfilled for the moment. She sighed and gathered up her resolve, then stepped though the door and into the the chaos within.

"I hate this stupid dress!" Arya shrieked out her displeasure and knocked over the small table near her with a kick of a foot, scattering parchment among the ground to mingle with the fresh rushes. "I hate the cut and I hate the color and I don't want to wear a bloody dress to the wedding I don't want to attend!" She crossed her slender arms and glared, all steaming anger and defiance, at their lady mother, who stood several feet from her, clutching a cream colored gown with rich embroidery in her scarred hands, an appalled expression on her aging face. Sansa knew it was up to her to remedy the situation.

"Arya," she said in an icy tone, surprising the young girl who had failed to notice Sansa's entrance in her bout of rage. "You must needs allow them to adjust your dress. We don't want it to look ill-fitting on your wedding day," Sansa said through a forced smile, making Arya's face screw up in blatant annoyance. She felt like sighing when her sister failed to understand what she was trying to explain.

"I don't need to do anything," she retorted as she backed towards the wall, trying to put as much space as possible between herself and the dress their mother still held in tightly clenched hands. "You can't force me to marry him," her voice grew in volume, face red in color, as she reached for her sword hilt. "It's against the laws of Gods and men." She gripped the hilt tight, as if it was the anchor holding her down to this world. Sansa approached her sister slowly, keeping her blue eyes on Arya's grey ones, only diverting her gaze to shush her mother when she opened her mouth to yell back at the defiant girl against the wall. She reached a hand out and entwined her long fingers with the skinny ones of her sister's left hand, squeezing them gently in reassurance.

"Arya, you must allow them to adjust the dress," she formed the words slowly, as if tasting every syllable before letting it exit her mouth," so you will not suffer on your wedding day," she said, more insistently, trying to get her sister to understand that none of this would matter in a week or two, when they'd be on their way to White Harbor and then to Essos. "The dress will not be of importance for long," her voice drifted into Arya's face softly, and finally her sister's angry eyes sizzled and cooled, understanding lifting the veil of fury.

"Oh," Arya said simply, hand dropping from the hilt of her sword," I understand. It'll be over soon," she said softly and squeezed Sansa's hand in return before turning to their baffled mother, her mouth gaping in an unladylike fashion. She left the safety of the wall, stepping closer to the dress that had instigated this mess. Sansa motioned for the maids to get back to work, and then helped Arya out of her clothes, their mother still standing still in dumb shock at the seemingly simple solution. _Oh, mother. If only you knew what you've driven us to._

Within an hour of diligent work, Arya was back in her normal clothes and Catelyn, the seamstresses, and the maids had fled from the room, ordeal behind them. Sansa, now fully alone with her sister, threw her arms around her and squeezed her in a tight embrace.

"That was close, Arya. You must not throw another fit like that again. We will be gone before that bastard so much as sets foot in here, do not doubt it," she sighed into Arya's slender shoulder, relief dulling the need to reproach her for her overreaction. Arya let her hug her for a second more before wrenching her slight body from Sansa's arms, then she jumped atop her featherbed and spread her figure atop the warm furs leisurely. 

"Has Sandor made all the arrangements?"  Sansa nodded her head and joined her sister on the bed, then stretched out her tall frame alongside the one already on the bed. "Where are we to go once we get to White Harbor?" Her pretty slate eyes stared up at Sansa's, full of question. Sansa sighed and shrugged her dainty shoulders.

"We don't know yet. He said something about Pentos or Tyrosh, and that we are to steer clear of Braavos," she added quickly, narrowing her eyes at her sister, who liked to brag about knowing some Faceless man from Braavos to anyone willing to stick around and hear her speak. As was expected, Arya pouted and tried to protest, but eventually gave up in favor of savoring the knowledge that there was at least somewhere to go, somewhere to escape this madness.

"We'll be at sea for months, considering it's autumn," Arya informed Sansa breathlessly, obviously excited at the adventures implied by months of sea travel. Sansa couldn't find the will to feel her joy, though. The thought of the sea only reminded her of her backstabbing foster-brother, Theon.

Her father had taken him in, treated him like a son when in truth he was but a hostage, allowed him to grow alongside the five Stark children and Jon Snow, and as repayment Theon had betrayed her brother Robb and butchered her baby brothers, a cripple and a toddler, in their beds and then displayed their bodies for all of Winterfell's household to see. He put the icing on the cake by trying to burn Winterfell to the ground instead of facing justice for the horrendous crimes he had done.

As much as she hated to admit it, if it hadn't been for the Boltons, Winterfell would still be in Ironborn hands, in filthy turncloak hands. Thinking about his execution, which Robb performed himself in the name of honor and tradition, both sated and saddened her. Although he had committed such atrocious actions towards her family, her sweet, innocent little brothers, he had also been her brother in a sense. He had taunted and teased her as a brother does, comforted her when Arya had pushed her too far by poking fun at her courtesies or broken her dolls, and had even tried to kiss her once or twice as she grew into an elegant beauty. She had loved him, in a sort of fashion, but hated him as well.

"Sansa," Arya waved a hand in front of her face, effectively yanking her from her melancholy reverie. She smiled at Arya with gratitude, then sat up on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I was thinking," her sister said, biting her lip in thought, a habit that was uniquely hers. "Maybe you and Sandor can get married before we leave. We can ask that Septon nicely if you like, or threaten him, but have you two married one way or another. So that no one can try to claim you are not his," she said in a passionate voice, hand gripping Sansa's in her state of righteousness. She disliked that she had not thought of it before, but appreciated that her sister had thought things out for the Sandor and herself, finding a way to bind them further.

"I'll talk to Sandor about it. Thank you, Arya. I'm truly lucky to have such a wild, clever little sister," she ruffled her hair at the end of her sentence, laughing in delight when Arya's face puckered in mock disgust, knowing that in truth she enjoyed the praise. The sadness of remembering she once shunned her for her defiant nature hovered in the back of her mind relentlessly. _W_ _hat a foolish little lady I was._

* * *

 

She awoke to the sound of sobbing.

"My love?" Sansa's croak went unanswered, so she reached out for Sandor, mind still fuzzy from sleep. When her hands could not find purchase, her eyes popped open, panic seizing her at his absence. The room was pitch black, her curtains sill drawn to block the early morning sun, but even in the dark she knew that the sobs were not coming from Sandor. No, those sobs were coming from a woman. A woman inside her bedchamber. The night before came rushing back and she was glad that Sandor had refused to spend the night in her bed.

"How long," the rasp came from the darkness," how long have you been ruined?" Sansa's head was spinning in confusion. She did not know why there was a stranger in her room, much less why she was asking Sansa about such a personal subject. Although the woman could not see it, Sansa's cheeks were flushed in embarrassment. She pulled the furs away from her body and swung her long legs over the edge of the bed, shivering as her feet grazed the cold stone under.

"I don't know who you are," her voice trembled childishly, as if she were confronting a monster under her large featherbed, making her curse silently," and I will call to the guards if you try to hurt me," she added as her left hand crept under a soft, heavy pillow and she felt like sighing in relief when it met the cold blade of the dagger Sandor had given her. She would not hesitate to use it if this woman tried anything. Then there was the unmistakable rustle of skirts, someone clutching cloth and pulling harshly, and the dewy morning light outlining the figure of Catelyn Stark, a bundle of incriminating herbs, herbs that Sansa had not hidden well, in her hands.

"What are you doing with that?" Sansa's voice was as small and insecure as she felt, there under her lady mother's broken, angry gaze. She wanted the bed to swallow her whole, wanted Sandor to take her into his arms and whisper that everything would be alright.

Most of all, she wanted for her mother to love her again, love her like she had before Sansa had gone willingly to the trap that was King's Landing, beautiful and false. She longed to please her mother, for a small part of the foolish Sansa would always exist. Though now she knew what it was to please only herself, and nothing would make her go back to only caring about the happiness of others above her own.

"I should be asking you that," her mother hissed at her, but instead of being cowed by the fury in her voice, Sansa felt the familiar flame of resistance licking at her insides, driving her to do something she was not supposed to, something unseemly. She stood from the bed sharply, and stared down at her fuming, weeping mother, falling apart at the knowledge that Sansa's maiden's gift had already been given to someone who was not her lord husband.

"No, mother. The real question is why you are in my bedchamber. Why you have violated my trust and ransacked my belongings," she said harshly, looking to the disarray of her vanity and wardrobe, clearly showing signs of having been raided recently. Her mother gave an unladylike snort.

"You violated our trust when you decided to ruin your chances of a great alliance by behaving like a wanton harlot instead of the noble lady you are!" Her face was a deep red, frustration showing with the deep bow of her brows, the downward tugging of the corners of her mouth. It would have frightened Sansa had she not known her mother would never dare strike her, for it was never proper for a lady to lose her composure and show her anger in violent outbursts.

 _Too late for that,_ Sansa thought, a twisted sort of amusement in the pit of her stomach. _Where did we all go so wrong?_ She thought that maybe it was when fat old King Robert came ambling up the Kingsroad to intrude upon their quiet little happiness, only to die and leave them to the mercy of the bloodthirsty lions. 

"Who was it?" Her mother's stern voice pulled her from her morbid thoughts, bringing her back to the reality she so wished to escape. "Who did you disgrace yourself with, Sansa?" There was strong steel behind her mother's voice, and Sansa knew at once that this was not the warm, soft mother who had combed her long mane of auburn hair lovingly when she had been a girl, the same mother who had recited the sweet prayers of the Faith with her, who had promised her happiness and the crown of the Queen of Westeros alongside golden haired Lannister children and a golden Prince. This was a woman scorned, a woman out for blood. A she-wolf in truth.

"I will not tell you," Sansa said, tone strong and absolute, not willing to give Sandor to the wolves, quite literally. She did not know what would happen to her now that her mother had found out the true state of her maidenhead, but she did know that if she fell from grace, she would not bring Sandor down with her.

"Come then," her lady mother said tightly, then grabbed her upper arm in an iron grip and hauled her from her bedchamber to drag her through the halls of the Keep in the early morning.

* * *

 

"Sansa, please. Just tell us who he was. I promise I will not have him harmed," Robb sat straight in front of her, his Tully blue eyes, identical to hers, desperately begging her to give him a name. Their mother, who was sitting next to Robb, made an incredulous whimper at the mention of no harm coming to the man who had dared defile her daughter, who had dared limit her great marriage prospects. Sansa's lips quirked up in a wry smile at the thought how stupid he believed she was.

"What would you do if I told you I gave myself to the whole guard? Maybe I've fucked all of your bannermen behind your back, maybe a garrison or two." She fingered the edge of the sleeve of her nightshift, a nervous habit she was unable to break, and watched in empty satisfaction as Robb's ears took on a lobster red hue in embarrassment of her wanton speech and suggestions.

"Stop behaving like an insolent child," her mother scolded, face as red as Robb's ears at the thought of her beautiful daughter acting as a common camp follower, pleasuring soldiers on her back with her legs wide open. Sansa leaned back in her chair, exasperated. They had been holed up in Robb's private chambers for hours on end, Sansa being drilled for details of her improper actions. So far their interrogation had wielded no results.

"I will not tell you, so please let me go attend to my duties. We don't have time to waste sitting around pointlessly," she sighed, wondering what Sandor had thought of her disappearance, if she would ever get to finish mending that stocking on the table near the hearth of her room.

"It is not pointless. You will tell us who this man is so that he may be dealt with as Robb sees fit," Catelyn said in an acid tone, not looking like she approved of Robb having the final say in the treatment of the man who ravished the Princess in the North. That small show of disapproval reminded Sansa of the power-hungry Cersei Lannister. Sansa imagined her now, could picture comely emerald eyes tainted by greed and lunacy, the trademark Lannister gold hair, and a widening waist paired with aging skin due to her heavy consumption of Dornish red. It filled her with unpleasant memories, so she switched her focus back to her mother and brother.

"What does it matter? I am not pregnant and I am certain Lord Jon will not mind when he discovers a thin piece of skin is missing from his otherwise perfectly functional wife," she informed them, assuming that Jon Umber was not the kind of man who cared much about a woman's maidenhead, even if that woman was highborn and his lady wife.

"It is a matter of honor, Sansa," Robb stated, words strong and sure. "How can I dishonor such a leal bannerman as the Greatjon by giving his son my tainted younger sister, instead of the noble maiden he was promised?" For a second, the old Sansa felt wounded by her brother's words, conditioned as she was to be the perfect female, but then she remembered the feeling of Sandor's cock inside her and she found that she did not mind not being a maiden at all.

"How well did honor serve father when Joffrey decided he wanted his head?" Though her words were soft, their effect was as profound as if she had shouted then right into their ears. Robb was on his feet, Catelyn gripping onto her chair so tightly that her knuckles were as white as her face. Two sets of ocean blue eyes stared into Sansa's, full of shock and pain. They could not feel as much pain as she did, though, because she was the one who ran to Cersei and spilled her honorable father's plans straight into her ear, she was the one who watched and did nothing but cry like a small child as Ser Ilyn Payne drove Ice down and through her father's neck.

"Go," Robb said through clenched teeth, voice unsettlingly devoid of anything, utterly empty of emotion towards Sansa. She nodded and rose silently, opening her mouth to say more. But then Robb was speaking again, not wanting to hear Sansa anymore, telling her to leave them in a tone harsher than any he had ever used on her. _Oh, leave I shall, brother,_ she thought, anguish and the exhilaration of impending freedom intermingling deep in her breast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sansa may seem selfish, but that's kinda the point. She really gets sh*t on a lot, and I wanted my Sansa to be able to say "Hey, I deserve to be happy," and do whatever she wants. Anyway, just a little rant on Sansa's mind state.


	8. Arya

Chapter 8: Arya

Her pretty sister made herself known before the wierwood, then, after she had accepted him, joined her scarred lover beneath the crimson canopy of leaves to kneel before the anguished face. They murmured the words, said a small prayer, and quick as that, they were man and wife.

Their wedding before the Old Gods was a hushed affair, silent and witnessed only by Arya. She felt the heavy presence of panic that someone would find them throughout the whole ceremony, even if it took place in the middle of the night while the whole of Winterfell slept on in peace. Even in this Sansa was beautiful and graceful, standing before the wierwood tree tall and strong, willowy figure clad in a silky white dress she had made herself over the span of two weeks. Ever since her mother and Robb had confined her to her bedchamber and the Godswood, she had a maddening amount of time on her hands to pray and sew.

Arya's eyes focused on Sandor, how his huge frame was cloaked in Sansa's own handiwork; a cloak embroidered with his House sigil of three black hounds running across a field of golden autumn. Arya knew she had given him that months ago, back when he was simply her savior and sworn shield, the man who had stolen her from the clutches of the Lannisters and delivered her to the warm embrace of her family. _If only they hadn't tried to sell us like cattle,_ Arya thought, bitter about being a mere pawn in the game of thrones.

Sansa wrapped her slender arms around Sandor in a gross display of tender affection. Arya made a gagging noise, making Sansa giggle and Sandor curse in a way which was terribly inappropriate to do in front of young ladies, which was the way Arya liked best. As she looked on at the two lovebirds staring at each other with complete and utter adoration, she thought of the boy with the bull's helm who had been a part of her pack once, a long time ago. Her heart ached for a second, making her reach a hand to her flowering chest. But then she remembered how he had left her, left her when she _begged_ him not to. He left her even though he was a part of her pack, her very small pack that had quickly lost its members, and now she would never see him again.

"I think that's enough," she pouted at her older sister, willing her to hurry so that they could retreat back to the safety of their chambers until it was proper for them to be outside again, though Sansa was limited in her choice of travel. Sandor smooched his blushing bride once more and then pulled her along with him as he made his way back to the Keep, Arya in tow of them, stomping her little feet at the thought of stupid, stubborn Gendry.

They crept through the halls, never making a sound, until they reached Sansa's bedchamber. Arya gave Sandor a pointed look, daring him to sneak into her sister's chamber and slam the door in her face, and he stared back, but in the end simply nudged the not-so-pleased Sansa inside and closed the heavy wooden door softly.They continued on their way to Arya's bedchamber, their feet scraping slightly along the stone floor like a lover's fleeting kisses.

"You probably thought this would never happen," she whispered into the dim hall, voice so silent that she through for a second that Sandor had not heard her. But then she remembered that he was a battle-hardened soldier with sharp hearing and quick senses, all abilities he needed to stay alive. Sandor's breathing changed slightly, but Arya noticed nonetheless. For she also had the ability to see with her eyes, truly see, and hear with her ears, not just what she wanted to hear, but what was really there.

"Not in a million years did I think I would get to marry Sansa fucking Stark," he rasped a few moments later, the non-belief still in his voice even after months, years of belonging to her sister in body and soul. A smile bloomed on her lips at the knowledge that her sister had finally gotten her wish, her song. She glanced at Sandor from the corner of her eyes, took in the gnarled scars covering half of his face, leathery and puckered. She remembered how the sight of his scars had first set her stomach rolling, back then when she was a child. How they had sent a sliver of fear down her strong spine, much to her chagrin.

"I never imagined she would even bother to _look_ at you until the pair of you showed up to steal me from the Brotherhood," Arya shot back, nose wrinkled up in distaste at the memory of being the highborn hostage of the Brotherhood without Banners. The men didn't hurt her much, and they never touched her as was inappropriate, but they still managed to rub her the wrong way. Now as she thought back on her time with them she figured it was their sense of false honor, the way they thought they had a right to steal her and claim it was for the good of the realm. She looked back at her good-brother's scarred face and noticed how he grimaced at the mention of Sansa's initial disgust and fear of him, back when she was a silly little lady with her head full of songs and delusions about Joffrey being her perfect golden prince, but he said nothing more for the rest of their walk to her bedchamber. 

"Goodnight, little wolf," he rasped, placed a giant hand on her thin shoulder, and then left her to her own devices. She floated through the open door and then bolted it to ensure her safety throughout the rest of the night, not that there was much time left for sleep. Dawn would arrive in an hour or two, and with it would come Arya's grudging responsibilities, such as breaking her fast with her lady mother and then reviewing wedding preparations. It made her want to retch that her brother and mother fully intended to go through with it knowing that she was very unwilling. _But I won't, and neither will Sansa,_ she thought, small fists clenched in a silent, bubbling rage.

Once she calmed herself she climbed into her bed, recited her list of people she would one day kill slowly, joyfully, and slipped into her other body, the one she had driven away with rocks and angry tears all those moons ago, the powerful one with four paws and a large pack at her heels, a large pack that would not desert her when she most needed it.

* * *

The maids bustled around her chamber, pouring scents and powders into her steaming bath, pulling her clothes from her slender figure. Arya simply rolled her eyes and allowed them to submerge her in the satisfyingly hot water, and leaned back when they proceed to scrub her pale skin until it was pink and fresh and ready to stuff into a proper gown. She did not know why they were taking such measures to get her ready this morning, and every time she asked what in the hells was going on they ignored her pointedly and resumed their tasks. She sighed as they shoved her towards her vanity, began pulling her hair into a semblance of something nice and pretty, and then sprayed her with sickly sweet smelling oils. A knock at the door made their incessant hands pull away from her quickly, and then scutter through the door, right past her lady mother's form at the doorway.

"Good morrow, daughter," she said, all proper grace and courtesies, and walked towards Arya with slow, measured steps. Arya eyed her through the mirror, watched as she touched her neat hair and brushed her scarred hands along the thick fabric that covered the slope of her shoulder, making goosebumps rise along the back of her neck. Her mother's Tully blue eyes connected with hers in the reflection of the glass, and just looking into those turbulent pools Arya knew something was amiss. "What is it?" Her question was blunt, just like everything else about her. Her mother seemed to straighten then, don her lady mask for whatever was to come. Arya had seen Sansa do it plenty of times to know what it looked like. For a moment, she wished she had a lady mask to hide behind as well. Her hand fluttered to her sword then, leaning against her vanity, ready to be strapped to the swordbelt Arya planned to put on even if she was supposed to be a lady today. She was ready to fight tooth and nail for the right to arm herself. 

"Your betrothed decided to slip out of the Bolton riding party and ride ahead with a small escort. They arrived shortly after dawn and we are to break fast with him in the Great Hall this morning," she informed Arya warily, her words causing anger and, annoyingly, panic to flare within her. Arya crossed her thin arms, opened her mouth to tell her mother that she would _not_ be breaking her fast with that man, but Catelyn turned her head, exposing her slender throat, and looked to the closed door.

"Brienne," she spoke softly, so softly that Arya thought that no one beyond the thick wooden door would hear her. In an instant, much to Arya's surprise, a tall warrior was stepping into the room, seeming awkward and uncomfortable in the room though she was only with her liege lady and her daughter. Arya had seen her around before, shadowing her mother as Sandor shadowed Sansa. She has arrived at Winterfell a month or two after Sansa, Sandor, and Arya had, ready to beg for Lady Stark's forgiveness for her failure to bring back Sansa. But Arya's mother simply welcomed her with open arms and quick forgiveness, for her daughters were both returned to her and it did not matter that it was not Lady Brienne who had delivered them to her breast.

"My lady," the large beast of a woman murmured and bowed like a man, and Arya was mesmerized. If this Lady could act and dress like a knight, why couldn't she? Lady Brienne was of noble birth too, yet she had the freedom to do as she wished and dress as she wished and live as she wished. Arya felt giddy at the thought of being able to do that soon, as soon as Sandor got them across the narrow sea safely. Her lady mother was grasping her hands now, hard, a brightness to her eyes that was almost feral. 

"Arya, I know that Ramsay Bolton is a monster," she paused to lick her dry lips, and Arya was confused as to why she would admit this if she planned to marry him to her anyway," and that is why I am giving you Lady Brienne, to keep you safe. I know you can defend yourself, but Brienne is a warrior, loyal and dedicated besides. She will keep you safe until-" she stopped, her eyes were nearly feverish now, shimmering with what Arya could only name as bloodlust. But that couldn't be right. She tried to pull her hands away from her mother's near painful grip, but she would not let go of her. Instead she tightened her clasp on her hands and smiled a queer little smile. "Robb and I- we have a plan, Arya. We will not let you fall into the Bolton's clutches. No, we have a plan," she repeated, and Arya was well and truly worried now. 

"Mother, you're scaring me," she said, but her voice was not hers, it was small and childish, so unlike her strong timbre. Her mother looked down at Arya's hands then, noticed how tightly she was holding them, and eased her grip slowly, almost reluctantly. Arya's big grey eyes stared up at her blues, really looked at her, and she could see that her mother was not lying, that there was truly some plan about to be executed. She let a bit of hope blossom deep in her chest. Maybe they wouldn't marry her to Ramsay. Maybe they would let Sansa be with Sandor. "So you aren't going to marry me to Ramsay?" At the question her mother's bright eyes darkened with unmistakable pity, and Arya already knew the answer to her stupid, hopeful question.

"No, my sweet girl," she released her hands to cup her long face softly," that is still part of the plan. You _must_ marry him, or we will not be able to-" she stopped again, almost forgetting herself, forgetting that her daughter was not supposed to know the plan that was incredibly important, but still do as she was told at the cost of her happiness and freedom. The hope in her chest withered and died, and she cursed herself for being so foolish as to believe that they would break the engagement. They would have to leave, it was now beyond all doubt.

* * *

 

He would not stop staring at her. 

Throughout the whole of their morning meal Ramsay Bolton drank her in with his leering weasel eyes. He would not stop, not even when everyone at the table had caught on and the conversation soured and turned into something dreadful. Sansa, who ate in the Great Hall this morning due to the unseemliness of keeping her locked up, sat next to her, fingers intertwined with Arya's. With his eyes on her, she felt like jumping into a steaming bath again, scrubbing her skin until the feeling of his eyes boring into her was but a horrid memory.

"How far did you say Lord Bolton was, my lord?" Robb asked him, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as everyone at the table really was. Queen Roslin squirmed in her seat as Ramsay's dirty ice chip eyes swiveled onto her slight form, growing alongside the child in her belly. She had announced her pregnancy a week ago, much to the excitement of Robb and Winterfell. Although Arya felt he did not love his little Queen, she knew he would love his children, his heirs. 

"About a week North of here, mayhaps less. My father is very determined to get here before the wedding takes place," Ramsay replied, wiping his thick lips with a cloth, and then smiled his chilling smile. His eyes found her again, and Arya could see the malevolent joy in them, knew that it was due to the prospect of getting to marry her, getting to own her. _I don't think so,_ she thought, and squeezed Sansa's soft hand to make sure she was really there, really ready to leave withing the week to Pentos or Tyrosh, anywhere far from here. "I myself can't wait another day," he said, wormy lips widening as his pale eyes stared right into hers, and she felt she might puke her breakfast right out again.

"My sister does not look so well," Sansa shot a glare at Ramsay, then turned her lovely blue eyes to Robb," if you'll excuse us," she said, then rose from her chair gracefully, and aided Arya as she stood unsteadily, still feeling sick from the way that creature looked at her, the way he measured her up. Then her arms were around her, pulling her from the Great Hall, from her family and from that monster with filthy eyes and even filthier smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short, but a bit more plot.


	9. Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is not the escape. This chapter takes place a few days after their fleeing from Winterfell. I wanted to take a peek at King's Landing.

Chapter 9: Cersei

She wanted to rip her sweet, young face to ribbons, pull her away from her golden, beautiful son. But alas, she could not, for her House depended on hers an almost pitiful amount.

Queen Margaery Tyrell sat next to Joffrey, her little harlot hand on his forearm, an innocent smile plastered on her face, but Cersei could see the fear in her pretty eyes, could already see her scheming to hurt her firstborn.

"The wolf bitch ran off with the traitor dog!" Joffrey chortled, finding amusement in how Sansa Stark had sunk so low as to elope with the Hound and then leave the fineries of Winterfell for wherever it was that Sandor Clegane could mount her and ruin her for the rest of her days. She could not keep a twinge of amusement from flickering across her face, and noticed how Margaery's perfect little smile faltered for a second at the thought of sweet Sansa, kind and gentle, ruined beyond repair. But then her lord father was grunting, glaring at her child, her brave lion, and she knew that he had made an error.

"You should not be celebrating so, Your Grace. She was a part of our agreement with the Boltons," he said, tone calculating, trying to find some way to mend this unforseen hindrance," with both the Stark girls gone they will have no legitimate claim to Winterfell. We won't be able to control the northern lords without continuing this war," his eyes, so like her own, were unfocused, his great mind worrying out the details of their next steps.

"I will make them bend the knee," Joff hissed, rising from his seat at the head of the council table," I am their rightful king!" His shriek earned him another glare from her father, and she felt a pang of embarrassment for how weak he seemed here in front of the council, in front of scheming little Margaery, shouting like a child at play. Lord Tywin stood then, a calm fury within him, and looked down at her raging son, how his emotions were written all over him, how he lacked self-control. _But he is brave and strong, as a lion should be._ She thought of Jaime at that moment, and her heart clenched in pain. Her other half, who had betrayed her, who was weak and soft and not her father's son. She should have been born a man, she would have made her father more proud than Jaime ever could.

"A king does not need to shriek his power like a child, Your Grace," Father mocked him, and his face colored a blotchy red, not becoming on his gallant features," Mayhaps you need a nap," he gestured towards Cersei then. "Take your son back to his chambers until he is well rested again, and teach him how to behave as a king should while you're at it," he waved them off, and then sat to continue plotting the end to this war that had ravaged this kingdom, had torn it to shreds. She wished she could go back in time and stop Joff from having Lord Eddard Stark's head chopped off. Instead she rose, cheeks pink with shame, and led her seething son from the council table and towards his lavish chambers. She slowed her pace when they reached the stone ground of the courtyard, enveloped in sweet smelling foliage and thick heat.

"Do you think you've gotten your little queen with child yet?" Joff only smirked in response, and Cersei felt annoyance buzzing around her like a persistent,  pesky fly. They continued on their way through the courtyard, walking at a leisurely pace beneath the sweltering King's Landing skies. She fanned herself, wondering when winter would finally arrive to ravage the kingdoms even more than this ridiculous war already had.

"You don't trust her," Joffrey said suddenly, jade eyes boring through hers, so similar, for they both had Lannister strength behind them, they were not weak like Tyrion's or Jaime's. Cersei only lifted the corners of her luscious lips in a well practiced smile, one meant to disarm her wild son.

"Of course I don't. How many times have I told you that you can only trust your family, only trust me?" She reached a dainty yet powerful hand towards his golden curls, gently brushed a few strands from his creased forehead. His lips were tugging downwards in a frown, his eyes shinning as he assessed the situation. "Besides, she's a Tyrell, and Tyrells cannot be trusted," she said, lips pressed thin in displeasure at the thought that the Tyrells had finally wormed their way up to her level.

"If they're not to be trusted, why did Grandfather broker an alliance with them?" Joff retorted, his voice insolent, his eyes narrowed at her as if _she_ was the lackwit. Cersei simply sat with grace on one of the stone benches beneath the canopy of a flowering tree, big and old and eternally beautiful, and patted the spot next to her. He remained on his feet for a second more, and then he was sinking down to the bench, ready to listen to what his mother intended to tell him.

"Your Grandfather made an alliance with them because they have what we need, not because they are trusted allies. They have food, the love of the smallfolk, and the luck of not having been damaged greatly by this war," she spat, emerald eyes slit and cold, focused on her son," this war that _you_ started when you had Lord Eddard Stark beheaded on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor," she reminded him, voice sharp and accusing, and he had the decency to flush with regret.

"He was a traitor," Joff sneered almost softly, voice unusually unsure, for he was always confident in his actions, always believed he was right. He had not been right then, though, nor when he drove stupid little Sansa Stark away and into the arms of the Hound, the only man who had been capable and feared enough to steal her away. When the news reached her the morning after the battle that both the Stark girl and Sandor Clegane were missing, Cersei was not very surprised. Why wouldn't the Hound snatch up the opportunity to steal away with a fair maiden, a freshly _flowered_  maiden?

After all, he had been Cersei's loyal hound first. He had belonged to her for years before he had ever belonged to anyone else. When she had first laid eyes on him she had thought that she would never be able to control him with her woman's weapon, not with that face, all scarred and ugly beyond reconciliation. But it had been ridiculously easy in the end. He slavered and obeyed and all she had to do was _look, look at him_. He never asked for more. _Not until the little dove came along,_ she thought, feeling ashamed at having been ousted by a little girl.

"And-" Joff blurted, pulling her back into the present roughly, his cheeks were splotchy with embarrassment," and he was claiming that I was a bastard! A bastard born of incest," he said, lips twisted in a cruel sneer, and Cersei felt rage, laced with the hot shame of the taboo love she and Jamie had shared, rise from somewhere deep within her. "I couldn't let him live after he had started those vile rumors about me, about us," he whispered, looking up at her with his Lannister eyes, but there was still a glint of steel to his voice, and Cersei knew he knew.

"Oh, darling," she leaned forward, kissed his brow, ran a hand through his golden locks," I hope you grow to be nothing like your fathers."

* * *

 

She sat in her solar, Dornish red dancing on her tongue, her cold eyes staring at the young girl before her.

"Are you feeling well, my lady?" Margaery's voice was sweet and high, her eyes a facade of warmth and worry. _Save your lying breath,_ Cersei thought acidly, almost speaking aloud because of the fuzzy feeling the sour wine was giving her. She took another sip anyway, still staring into her good-daughter's lovely face framed with chestnut churls, lavish jewels intertwined with her supple locks. She was a pretty little thing, but not as beautiful as Sansa Stark had been, or as Cersei.  _They've told me no one can match my beauty,_ she thought, some smugness in her breast.

"I know what you're planning," Cersei slurred slightly, tongue feeling heavy in her mouth, and she saw uncertainty in the little queen's eyes, saw how her breathing hitched slightly. She would be easy pray.

"I do not know what you mean, my lady," her smile was sweet, almost sickly sweet, and her eyes were back to naive and innocent, unthinking. "I would like to know why you begged my company, if it please you," she said, voice gentle, cautious, and Cersei could not keep a frown off of her face at the thought of her begging anything from Margaery. She set her goblet on the table and leaned forward threateningly, like the lioness she was, ready to pounce.

"I see the way you look at my son," she sneered, and the smile slipped from the Tyrell girl's lips," I know how you fear him, how you fear his strength and courage," she continued, and now it was the girl's turn to frown," I don't trust you. I don't trust your oaf of a father. I don't trust your wrinkled, walking corpse of a grandmother," her lips peeled up in a feral smile, daring the girl to say anything. She did not. Cersei reclined in her chair, took up her goblet again, and stared at Margery's ashen face, the weary fear in her big clear eyes. "If anything happens to my son, I will have every single one of you damn Tyrells executed," she paused, took another sip," and then I'll give you to the Mountain and let him take you before the whole court, right there in the center of the throne room," she leered, and then waved her hand in nonchalant dismissal.

The girl was gone in a flare of fine skirts and chocolate tresses, and the scent of fear lingered long after she had fled. 

* * *

 

She was roused by a servant, urgent and fearful, and after glaring at the slip of a girl, she allowed her to explain why she was there. When the girl had finished stuttering out her father's summon, she shrugged on a silky robe, and then flew towards the council chambers on light, lioness feet.

They were all there. All except for the king and his wretched little queen. Father sat at the head of the table, silent and brooding and _wrong_. Her father never let many of his emotions show, and right now anyone with eyes would know something was deeply wrong. She sat with her lady's grace, and then stared at her father's pale emerald eyes, willing him to explain how this had happened.

Her father looked at her then, and she knew that the servant had not lied, had not exaggerated. All of their plans, their careful plots to finally rid the kingdom of Robb Stark and his mother, had been flushed away with one single action, one single weak link.

"Robb Stark has accussed Lord Bolton of high treason," he said, and Cersei felt like she was sinking.


	10. Catelyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, don't hate me! The escape is next, and there's 2 chapters in one day so. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 10: Catelyn

Burrowed in furs, clutching one of Sansa's dresses, Catelyn Stark cried her broken heart out. Her sobs were broken and sharp, heard throughout the whole of Winterfell, wails only a mother who had lost almost all could make. Robb had tried to get her out of bed, but she simply kept weeping, silently or loudly, and begged him to find her daughters, to bring them back, no matter the cost. She pleaded that he tell them they would not have to marry, to tell Sansa she could live the rest of her life with Sandor Clegane, that they would not imprison him for marrying her and ravishing her, and tell Arya that she could be the lady knight she pined to be for so long. Though she knew it could not happen, she clutched to the sweet lies desperately, and begged, demanded Robb repeat them to her little girls once they found them.

They had been gone for days now, the three of them, and Ramsay Bolton was missing as well, though Catelyn doubted they'd taken him along with them. A shiver went down her spine at the thought of what Clegane and Arya did to that monster, how they probably gutted him, fed him to a pack of wolves, made him suffer. _My wild, feral Arya,_ she thought, and fresh tears of all-consuming pain sprung from her Tully blue eyes, eyes that she had given to her sweet Sansa.

"Sansa," she croaked from beneath her mountain of furs, and set to sobbing with twice the intensity, twice the heartache. She did not know how long she spent lamenting her daughters this time, but when she finally braved slipping from beneath the furs, damp with her mother's tears, the sun was nestled against the horizon, nuzzling into it like a babe in arms. She was about to start crying once more when Robb came through the door, and then stopped abruptly, astonished to see her out of her cocoon of warmth and tears.

"Mother, I am glad to see you out of bed," he said, and then took her into his steady arms, his arms which now belonged to a man, a king. She sighed against his strong shoulder, feeling like she was home, here in the arms of her last child, the only one the Gods hadn't taken from her in all their unpredictable cruelty. He pulled away to look into her stormy, sorrowful eyes, like a vengeful ocean, and Catelyn knew that he did not have good news for her.

"We have not found the girls. Clegane made sure to erase their scents and not leave evidence of their presence," he said, softly, as if fearing she might break more, though Catelyn found it hard to imagine feeling any worse than she did right then. "The Septon still claims they forced him to preside over the ceremony," he grimaced, not sure what to do with the man who had married his sister to Clegane on the night of their escape," and...and we have found a letter from Sansa, in the Godswood," Robb whispered, and then she was pulling herself together, ready to face the words of the daughter she had driven from her arms with threats of marriage and unhappiness.

"Show me," she demanded, not caring that he was not her son, but her king. And he did. He guided her to her sturdy chair by the hearth, roaring and cackling in its restlessness, sat her down gently, and then pressed a worn piece of parchment into her scarred hands, hands that had been damaged in her defence of her sweet, sweet Bran. _And where is he now?_ She felt like crawling back into her furs, but then she straightened her shoulders, reminded herself that she was Catelyn Stark, daughter of Riverrun, wife to her dear departed Ned, and mother to the King in the North. She unfolded the letter and read.

**By now you must be aware that we are gone. I am truly sorry that it had to come to this. Arya, Sandor and I saw no other option but to flee, to try and live our lives the way we want to. It is pointless to come after us. I have married Sandor Clegane and we are bound body and soul by all the laws of Gods and Men. You cannot tear us apart and I would rather die than return to you, knowing that you would kill my beloved and then proceed to kill my spirit by selling me off to Jon Umber, or Roose Bolton, or whoever it is you see fit to make me marry. I am sorry. We are sorry. But know that we love you, even if you tried to hurt us, and we always will. Take care, mother, brother.**

Her vision was blurred with anguish and a deep, blistering rage. Sandor Clegane. Catelyn was sure it was that brute that had put the idea to run in her daughters' heads. She knew now that they should have offed him when he had first arrived at Winterfell, Sansa in his arms and Arya right behind them. Instead, Robb had spared him, allowed him to share his hearth and bread, and bestowed upon him the privilege to shield her beautiful Sansa. And the selfish dog had decided to take her innocence and steal her and her sister away to Gods know where. She knew then that if and when they were found, the Hound would suffer a long, grueling death in front of her silly daughters. She would make them see they had made a great mistake. She turned to Robb then.

"Have you seized Lord Bolton?" Robb sighed, ran a hand through his handsome auburn curls, and nodded. Catelyn felt some relief knowing that this man, this man who plotted to destroy her family, was now in Winterfell's dungeons, awaiting a trial to determine his guilt and then Robb would be free to release his head from his shoulders. "You need to make sure to keep his rat safe, mayhaps put him in a nice chamber and place guards outside his door," she sighed, inwardly thanking the Gods for this disloyal servant who had snitched on Lord Bolton's treachery. Robb plopped down on the chair across from her, and Catelyn remembered a day weeks ago when Sansa sat before her, unhappy and ready to bolt. And she had blindly, foolishly trusted her not to forsake her family, her duty, her honor.

"That is what I am doing now," he told her, voice firm and sure, competent enough to have already seen to the safety of their evidence. _He is not a little boy any longer,_ she though sadly, fondly. She hated the Lannisters even more in that moment, for making her baby boy grow up so quickly, for thrusting him into this war by way of murdering her precious Ned. She forced herself not to think of him often, to spare herself the pain, but right then it was impossible not to dwell on his sweet memory, their last moments together. _We were so foolish to think we could play this game of thrones,_ she mused, bitter and sour as unripe lemons. A fist pounding on the door urgently brought her back to the present. Robb was on his feet in an instant, already moving towards the door. The captain of the household guard looked sickly pale, and when he told them what they had found so did Robb and Catelyn.

They had finally found a body.


	11. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The escape.

Chapter 11: Sansa

She snuck through the halls of the Keep, hoping with all her heart that no one would wake from the sound of her soft mouse steps and discover her attempting to flee her nice gilded cage. She was dressed in two woolen dresses, three pairs of woolen stockings, and a warm fur cloak, ready to brave the harsh weather of her fond North. A part of her ached to be leaving this place where she was born, where she grew to be a stupid girl alongside her sweet siblings and tender father.

When she entered the Sept she was immediately enveloped in darkness and could not see a single thing. She called out for her beloved, for her sister, and soon heard a faint sound near the front of the seemingly empty building. She moved slowly to the very front, right beneath the altar where she would be wed, by kindness or by force, saw the darker than dark shapes of Arya and Sandor, and glimpsed the Septon with his hands bound.

"I think the bugger's finally ready to do as he's bid," Sandor told her, rough voice sending pinpricks of desire traveling down her back, and then pointed in the general direction of the holy man ready to wet himself. Sansa inhaled and realized the Septon had already lost control of his bladder and made water before she had arrived. _Poor man,_ she thought, pity making her want to help the man who stood there, eyes wide as hard-boiled eggs. She merely nodded instead, and moved to stand beside Sandor in front of their victim, while Arya moved to sit on one of the benches to observe yet another marriage ceremony between Sansa and Sandor.

The ceremony was long, grudging, recited in a quivering tone, and witnessed again by only one other person. Sansa remembered a time when her wedding was meant to be an opulent affair, attended by many lords and ladies, and her groom was to be a handsome knight, or later, her golden prince. Even though this ceremony was a long shot from her girlhood dreams, she could not have wished for anything more than to be marrying Sandor. Except for maybe the approval and acceptance of her brother and her mother, the reprieve from her duty. She shook her head to rid it of those foolish thoughts and watched as Arya knocked the Septon atop the head from behind with a bronze ornate candle holder as soon as he finished signing the wedding certificate with an unsteady hand, and then gagged him and stuffed him in a small alcove of the Sept.

She reached out for Sandor then, pulling him towards her with incessant, needy arms, wanting him near her to draw on his courage, his fierceness, and try to capture it for her own. He wrapped his strong arms around her, drawing her into his warmth, making her heart swell with adoration for how gentle he could be. Then Arya was clearing her throat loudly, making a face at the the two of them, tapping an impatient foot on the ground.

"Looks like someone's jealous," he said, chest rumbling against her face, and Arya moved quickly to smack one of his arms. Sansa laughed, kissed Sandor's cheek, and then grabbed one of the rough spun sacks Sandor had prepared for the very night of their escape. _For tonight_ , she thought, excitement pulsing through her veins, breath quick. Arya led the way as they traversed through Winterfell, trying to get to the stables undetected by the guards standing watch atop the inner wall. When they managed to creep into the structure, Arya went in search of three suitable horses for them to ride until they reached White Harbor. Sansa looked to Sandor and saw him in the corner of the stables, head and arms inside the stall holding the black stallion that had been his only friend for so long. She felt sorry for him then, sorry that they could not take the southron beast, sorry that it was autumn and the cold tendrils of winter were creeping into Westeros.

"Got 'em," Arya whispered with a hint of pride in her voice when she returned, clutching the reins of the three shaggy creatures that would surely endure the blistering cold until they reached their destination. Sansa's eyes darted to Sandor, now next to her after having finished saying his farewells to his loyal destrier, and she smiled when he grunted in approval of the mounts Arya had pilfered.

Her heart almost stopped when he pulled out a dagger and grabbed at Arya's dark brown locks. Arya did not resist whatsoever. On the contrary, she looked like as if this had been planned, as if they had spoken of hacking her hair off before. Before Sansa could even utter a word on the matter, Sandor was sawing away at Arya's hair, letting it fall to the floor in uneven chunks.

"Why?" Sandor simply grunted at Sansa's question, continued to chop off more hair. Arya raised a bold brow at her older sister, clearly amused at her apparently stupid enquiry.

"How am I supposed to pass as a boy if I have long hair?" She gestured to her attire and Sansa noticed she was dressed as a squire, breeches and tunic and riding boots, and armed, as always. Once her hair was fully cropped close to her head she would appear as a young man to all the world. She nodded, understanding the rouse her clever sister had decided to take on.

"Who am I to be?" She picked at her simple gown and stared at Sandor with big eyes, willing him to assign her a role to play for the escape. He finished with Arya's hair and then turned to his wife. _My husband,_ she thought, wistful and feeling as light as if she was floating on a soft cloud. They were finally man and wife, bound in the eyes of Gods and Men, forever and always. Her heart thrummed with bliss. He sheathed the dagger and pushed Arya away gently.

"It's either a wench or a whore for you, little bird. We can shave your head smooth, but we can't do anything about your figure," he growled, looking at the flare of her hips, her full breasts, and she flushed with a mixture of shame and desire. Shame that she could not find a better disguise, and desire for the look her husband was giving her, eyes stormy with lust. _Now is not the time,_ she reminded herself and nodded, turning to eye the poor stableboy Arya had whacked over the head to silence momentarily. She was very eager to be hitting people over the head this night, that was clear.

Sansa ran over to the ebbing flame near the stableboy's quarters while her companions mounted, and then reached for some soot coating the top of the hearth. Sandor gave a deep, raspy laugh and Arya smiled when she saw Sansa, a noble lady, rubbing the soot on her roots, across her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, in an effort to appear a serving wench or, as Sandor had put it, a whore. Then she climbed atop her mount, pulled her hood up and over her head to conceal her highborn features as much as she possibly could, and followed behind Sandor and Arya as they rode out of the stables and down towards the South Gate, where they would try and persuade the guard to let them pass through to winter town on a supposed errand.

They made it to the gate, and waited for the guard to climb down from atop his turret. He was young and green, Sansa could tell, and it was possible that he would be easily fooled by her gruff husband. He swaggered towards them, eyes widening slightly and steps flattering when he realized the great, big man that sat at the top of the first horse was none other than Sandor Clegane, ex-Lannister dog.

"What business do you have leaving the castle, Clegane?" The guard eyed her beloved, and then switched his attention to the two figures behind him. He did not seem to notice that they were the Princesses, or that they were trying to escape. Sandor plainly gestured towards Sansa, and her heart lurched in panic, fearing the guard would surely recognize her now.

"Paid for a good whore, and now I'm returning her from where she bloody came from," Sandor grumbled, then spat on the ground beneath him. The guard watched her for a second, looking at her as if he was on the cusp of realization, but then he remembered there was a second figure behind the apparent whore. He pointed at Arya then.

"Why do you bring the boy along? It seems to me he has no business going to some whore house with you," he said, lips curled in a nasty sneer that made his handsome face transform into something quite ugly. Sandor grunted in response and opened his mouth to explain when Arya cut in.

"He means to reward me," Arya said in a deep voice, sounding like a proper young man, a bit of feigned arrogance in her voice. _Or maybe not so feigned,_ she thought, thinking of her sister's swagger and easy confidence. The guard chortled at Arya's response, but then waved at his companion atop the turret, and the gates creaked open, offering them the world. 

* * *

 

They had started heading East when they heard the sound of hooves pounding the ground from behind them.

Sandor cursed, Arya followed suit, and Sansa only blanched in quiet, muffled horror, imagining the household guard behind them, ready to drag them back to Winterfell so that Robb could have them married right away and Sandor executed the moment he set foot inside the castle once more.

"Little bird," Sandor rasped, and she turned to him quickly, wondering what he was planning in that beautiful, morbid mind of his. "Do you have your dagger?" She felt her bodice, the hard steel beneath, and nodded dutifully. He made a noise of approval and then stopped his steed. "You need to ride ahead while we take care of whoever the hells is fucking tracking us," he growled, angry at the disturbance in the smooth sailing of their escape, but Sansa was not cowed so easily. She stopped her mount before his and stared up at him defiantly.

"No," she said, simply, firmly to his dark and gloomy face, now flecked with annoyance at her refusal. She was nothing but persistent though. "I will not leave you, my family. We will fight them together," she reached a dainty hand towards his right forearm, could feel the muscle tense, as she ignored Arya's snort at her sister's sentimental little speech.

"Such a tender family moment," came a voice, cold and sardonic, from behind the bantering group, catching them by surprise. Sansa looked behind and immediately felt like wretching her dinner onto the soft earthen floor of the thin forest they had been riding through. Arya looked even worse, all anger and panic swirled together to make this crazed look shine in her steel eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Arya's question was met with one of his wormy smiles, all thick lips and no space. He rode his steed further into the small space their party occupied, trying to include himself into what they were doing.

"I could ask you the same question, Princess," he sighed, nose wrinkled in annoyance," though you don't look much like one now. Not that you ever looked like a princess, not like your pretty sister here," he flashed his unsettling smile onto Sansa, still lovely under the soot and hooded cloak. She felt her stomach roll in great discomfort. She _knew_ that if they didn't get away from him soon, her dinner would most definitely adorn the snow and patches of grass below her gentle beast.

"Get the hells out of here, bastard," Sandor growled, and neared Ramsay, blotchy skin coloring an ugly crimson at the mention of his bastardy. "You best leave us be or soon that bloody twisted head of yours will be missing its shoulders," he said, voice gravely, and unsheathed his large sword, ready to hold true to his promise. Ramsay simply licked his thick lips and stared at Sandor with his feral, icy eyes as if looking right into the pit of his being.

"I'm sorry to say that I need my head to marry the Princess Arya, whom you will not be taking any further since she is my intended, and I am not known for letting others take what is mine," his grin widened, and Sansa could not help but remember that Lord Bolton once had another child, another son, and the rumors that flew around the North about his manner of death and the supposed involvement of his sadistic bastard half-brother. Then, quick as a snake, his fleshy hand was clutching Arya's reins, and although Arya was fighting him off, his strength overpowered hers and in an instant they were off, horses galloping back to the direction of Winterfell, back to the home they had managed to escape.

"Fucking whoreson," Sandor growled beside her, sheathed his word in one fluid motion, and then he was running after Ramsay and her stolen little sister, who she could still see kicking and screaming in her saddle. Sandor managed to make good speed, and although Ramsay was fast and stronger than Arya, he was no match for Sandor. Sansa rode forward when her husband managed to easily stop Ramsay's horse and then proceeded to shove him off the saddle in a simple bored flick of his warrior's arms.

Arya jumped from atop her horse and decided to work off her rage by kicking Ramsay's side over and over again, only stopping when Sandor grunted that it was enough, that the bastard would be dead soon anyway.

In the end, even for all the atrocities he had committed in his short life, Ramsay Bolton's death was rather boring.

He did not plead as Sandor drew his greatsword, did not crack under the fear of fast approaching death. He simply smiled his creepy little smile as Sandor slid the blade through the soft flesh of his ribcage, and his smile only widened as the expertly-wielded steel struck true and punctured his heart, ending his sorry existence. When Sandor pulled his blade out from the lifeless hunk of meat, she was disappointed to see that the blood was not black, that the blood of such a creature was merely the warm red that flowed through all humans.

"His head," Arya piped up then, reminding Sandor that he had promised Ramsay he would gladly separate his head from the rest of his body for his unwanted interference in their escape. His scars twisted into a grim smile, then his sword was at Ramsay's throat, cutting into the soft flesh, tearing at it until his neck was but a stump and his head was in Sandor's hands. He gave the head to Arya, as a champion would give a fair lady the crown of Queen of Love and Beauty at a tourney, and she took it, her smile a thin line of morbid satisfaction, and stared into the dead eyes of her betrothed, glad that he was now gone forever Sansa assumed.

They placed the body against a tree, head in its cold, lifeless hands, and then mounted their horses and continued making their way East towards a better life, a happy one.


	12. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not overly fond of writing "on the run" stuff, so I'll spread things thin. There will still be stuff, of course, but I'll leave longer stretches of time between chapters. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I know my updates might seem suspiciously frequent, but that's only because I have no life whatsoever and lots of free time on my hands.

Chapter 12: Sandor

He pressed himself flat against the stone wall, wishing they were invisible at that moment, that the men Robb Stark had sent Southeast in search for his missing sisters and traitor dog would not see them there, hidden inside the overhang, breaths baited in tense anticipation.

It seemed like hours had passed before he let his form, which was taut as a bowstring, relax enough to take a breath of relief, making Sansa and Arya melt from the walls in their own silent celebration at not being caught and dragged back to their brother and mother. The sound of horses' hooves pounding through the trees had faded long ago, and now they were free to yet again set up camp for the night.

They went about their tasks in silence, working as parts to something whole,  and when their sad little fire was spitting sparks they sat around it, chewing on the tough dried meat he had ordered Arya to steal from the Kitchens before they had left. As he swallowed he imagined their sack of food, slowly growing more scarce the farther they went, the more they rode towards White Harbor. He knew soon they would have to hunt to stay alive, unless they stumbled across a little shit village with some food to spare, which was bloody unlikely in his opinion.

"There still wine?" Sansa shook her pretty head at him, knowing that he knew that the wine had dried up the week before. Still, he had to ask just for the sake of asking, the sake of asking her for something that would not lead to an argument. These days they spent their time fluctuating between bickering and curling up together under the furs to fuck. When Arya had caught on to what they were doing while she had been trying to get some rest, she had shrieked in disgust and then moved her bedroll as far away from camp as she dared, at least until she stopped hearing the muffled grunts and soft moans, the sound of Sandor pushing Sansa into the soft earthen floor with every thrust.

"Do you think they'll come back?" She asked him, voice soft and gentle, also tiptoeing around him, trying not to poke at the agitation that hung over the traveling party and made them crabby. Sandor only hummed at her, not a yes, but not a no either, just a simple noise that conveyed his lack of knowledge. She nodded, understanding. _She's always understanding, my smart little bird._ He neared her then, wrapped a big arm around her slender figure, tucked her into his warm, lean side, and she sighed, all girly contentment.

"You're only being nice to each other because it's dark and soon you'll want to fuck," her sister observed, voice drenched in distaste at their indiscretion when it came to their nightly activities. Sandor bared his teeth at her in a leery smile and kissed Sansa's swan neck, making her blush in a way so maidenly, so pure. Arya shook her head and moved to her bedroll, muttering something vulgar beneath her breath as she dove under her fur and turned from them. Sansa kissed his cheek, the unburnt one, and giggled at the feeling of his prickly stubble. He smiled at her and then tossed another piece of the unsavory meat Into his mouth, watching her as she turned to the pitiful fire, face unreadable.

"What are we going to do when we get there?" She did not need to elaborate, Sandor knew exactly what she was asking, for the same question circled around his mind like a vulture day and night. He finished chewing the meat, grabbed one of her small hands in his newly freed one. His fingers rubbed against the smooth skin there as he thought of a response.

"We have enough gold to find somewhere to live, an inn mayhaps. I'll sell my sword," he raised her slender fingers to his lips and brushed a kiss against the creamy skin," and I have no fucking idea what you'll do with these soft hands of yours," he murmured wryly, hoping to glimpse her dazzling smile or tinkling laugh. Instead she yanked away from him, petulant expression on her face, and clasped her hands on her lap, nice and proper. She did not leave the fire though, and Sandor saw it as a sign that she wasn't _that_ mad. "It was only a jest, Sansa," he said, raspy voice as gentle as it could be, and stood from his seat on the ground. She looked up then, tears in her blue eyes. _Oh Gods._

"It's just that, I wish I was more useful," she hiccupped, and wiped the tears that slid down her cheeks, hot with shame, "I wish I was strong like Arya, or that I knew how to help us when we get to Pentos," she said, voice forlorn as she rubbed at her lovely eyes. He sighed, bent down to her, cupped her pretty face in his large hands, and kissed her tears away, the tip of her beautiful nose, her wet cheeks.

"You are useful, little bird. You know how to deal with people, you know how to sew and embroider, and you know how to come up with good ideas in that pretty little head of yours," he told her, kissed her once more for good measure, and then hoisted her up to take her to their furs and make her feel alive for the night. 

* * *

 

"Well fuck me bloody," he said when Arya spotted the little shit village he had only dreamt of finding.

The village was small, but the inn stood tall and proud in the center. Sandor thought then that this place served as a resting spot for most lords and their escorts when traveling, and that the inn most likely had a decent room for the night and food to fill their empty rough spun sack, devoid of nourishment for days now.

"Can we?" Sansa's voice was oozing with the need for a warm bath, clean clothing, and a soft bed beneath her when they made love at night."Sandor, please," she begged, sapphire eyes wide, luring him in. Arya rolled her eyes but said nothing about her sister begging him for a night at the inn, where they might meet trouble. He cursed inwardly, but only grunted at her.

"No need to beg like a commoner, Sansa," Arya finally said, smirking at her sister, who only swivelled her blue eyes onto her. Sandor ignored the rest of their argument as he inspected the village. He saw no Stark Banners flying about, no men-at-arms come to look for the girls. _Mayhaps it is safe,_ he though, brow furrowed in uncertainty. _Fuck it._

"We're going," he rasped, and Sansa did a little dance of happiness in her saddle. Arya crossed her thin arms across her still-flat chest and pouted like a petulant child at the thought of the delay, much as Sansa was like to do. He rolled his eyes at that. They  _were_ still girls, even if Sansa was practically a woman grown and Arya was almost of age, which is why her kingly brother saw fit to marry her off before she grew even more wild, more untameable.

They moved towards the village slowly, and to anyone else they would only seem a family in truth. Sansa looked like any other woman with her hood concealing her radiant features and weeks of riding making her look filthy, common, and Arya looked like a common squire, small and not formidable, only a lithe young man following his Ser. As they rode through they only got a few stares, and most of those were singularly because of Sandor's hideous scars. _Of course, they'll never stop fucking staring._ He was on edge until they were inside the stables, handing the horses off to a stableboy scared out of his wits at the sight of Sandor, tall, strong and scarred as he was, barking at him to treat the animals gently.

Inside, the common room was heavy with the smell of crackling meat and cheap wine floating in the air, and the sole inhabitants, a group of men in the corner, instantly turned to the newcomers. He saw no Stark sigils, and allowed himself to relax the slightest amount, then led the girls to a table near the stairs to where he assumed the rooms were. Sansa sat with all the grace and poise she could muster after being back on the run, but Arya plopped down on the chair like a boy, legs wide open and a slouching posture. Sandor knew the little bugger enjoyed it too.

"What can I do ya'?" A man who looked immensely overweight asked him as he emerged from what looked like a kitchen, northern accent palpable, and neared Sandor and the girls. His beady eyes flickered to Sansa, thoroughly observing the curves beneath her simple dress, and Sandor wanted to backhand him across his fleshy face for daring to look at his wife that way.

"You best keep your eyes away from my woman," Sandor growled, hand on the pommel of his sword in a not-so-subtle threat, but then again, Sandor Clegane was not a subtle man. He said what he meant and meant what he said, and hated people who skirted around the truth. _Like the little bird, back when she was a little bird in all truth._ The man only paled, ruddy cheeks turning the color of rancid milk, and backed a step away from the warrior.

"I meant no harm," he said shakily, eyes pleading Sandor not to gut him for looking at Sansa like a common dockside whore. Sandor only grunted, gestured to the pouch of coins hanging off his sword belt, and then pointed a thumb towards the stairs.

"How much for a night, two rooms, a bath, and a warm meal?" The man still looked quite ready to piss himself, but managed to tell Sandor the price, which was much too high in Sandor's opinion, and lead the three to the rooms upstairs, just as Sandor had figured. Sansa was teeming with excitement, a smile on her sweet lips, a slight bounce to her step, as they made their way up. Arya was much more placid, unreadable to all, and only displayed a hint of annoyance when a whore with wandering hands tried to grope at her in an attempt to sell her services to a seemingly green boy in order to pay her stay for the price of a good fuck. Arya only pushed her away, back against the wall the drunken woman had been leaning on, and continued walking behind Sansa.

"This one is a bit better. It's where the lords stay when they pass through here. Got a featherbed and a tub. The other one's only got a straw bed," the innkeep drawled, finally gaining back his confidence around Sandor, and held out his hand for payment. Sandor only grinned, scars twisting grotesquely, and gave him half of the set amount, much to the man's scorn. Sandor clapped one big paw on the fat man's shoulder, leaned in, and told him he was good for it. "Knight's honor," he said, grin widening in the sheer absurdity of those words passing through his mouth, and Sansa giggled behind him, cute and light and so fuckable. The man merely grumbled as he hobbled away to tell his daughters to fill the tub for his little wife's much-needed bath.

"I'll be sleeping," Arya muttered," and this time without you two going at it right fucking next to me," she said, door slamming behind her as Sandor barked out a deep laugh. Then he scooped Sansa into his arms, took her into their room, threw her on the bed, and bolted the door behind them.

He was pretty sure the little wolf was still able to hear them anyway.

* * *

 

"Knights don't have any bloody honor," he growled at the fuming innkeep," and it's about fucking time you learn that."

He spat on the ground and turned to mount his horse, looking at the girls and how they smiled wryly at the lesson he had just thought the fat fucker. When he was atop his shaggy creature, he looked down at the man, face as red and round as a tomato, grinned his grotesque grin, and led the small party they formed out of the small village where they had restocked their supplies and spent a night in a bed after two weeks of no such luxury.

"That was a bit cruel, Sandor," Sansa said behind him, guilt creeping into her kind heart. He felt bad for her then, because she had fallen for a cruel man, and he was not willing to change his being even for one of her pretty smiles, one to make his heart melt. Arya laughed at Sansa's display of empathy, and after a few seconds Sandor joined in as well. Instead of getting angry and cross like she would have when she was a silly child, Sansa cracked a small smile, content to have made her small family laugh, even at her own expense. That was the way she was, and Sandor loved her for it all the more.

"How much longer until we reach White Harbor?" Arya asked, clearly impatient with the monotony of their travels so far, and Sandor calculated the time they spent riding every day, how much distance they made. He was not a maester, but he was also not a mindless Hound. He had proved that by leaving his former employers at the height of their necessity for his battle prowess, much to the Lannisters' chagrin.

"Two weeks, maybe more. Then sea and more sea. You'll get bored of that pretty damn quickly, little wolf," he said, smiling at her for her childish knack of losing interest quite easily, and then looked at Sansa, quiet and brooding on her own horse. On closer inspection she looked a bit green, and Sandor neared his horse to hers in order to take a better look at his little wife. "You feeling well, little bird?"

She did not respond, only paled a bit further and reached a dainty hand to her mouth. Sandor knew what would happen before it actually did. Sansa hunched over the side of the horse, clutched her stomach, and emptied out her breakfast onto the ground beneath. Sandor stopped their horses, reached a hand over to her gleaming auburn curls, and held them away from her face, knowing she'd feel even more wretched about dirtying her freshly washed locks. Arya made a noise of surprise ahead of them.

"Is she alright?" She walked her horse closer to them, stared at the mess Sansa had made on the ground, and wrinkled her nose in quiet revulsion. This was the girl who had killed men before, but quickly turned as green as her sister at the sight of bile. "Ugh," she grunted, and then realized that her sister was the one who had puked up the horrible sight not minutes before. "Sansa?" He looked back at his lady love and almost felt like hitting himself.

"I don't know," Sansa choked out, tears welling in her sapphire eyes, all big and sad and lost. "I don't know why I did that!" She started sobbing then, and Sandor slipped from his saddle to lift her from hers, then took her in his arms in an effort to soothe her. He ran a hand over the back of her head as she sobbed into his armored chest, and tried to calm her with sweet words. Arya, though, did not have the time or patience for his methods.

"Sansa!" Arya shouted, hands on her slight hips, after she had dismounted and stomped towards the couple. Sansa peeked at her through her curtain of hair and veil of tears. "Get a grip. You're just feeling sick from all the riding! It's all well," she spread her hands, trying to simplify the situation and get back on the road to White Harbor again instead of dawdling about while her sister was acting a right hysterical mess. Sansa blinked at her and then burst into another bout of tears, clutching onto Sandor for dear life, while he scowled at Arya for making it worse.

"Shh, little bird. You're alright. Nothing's wrong with a little throw up," he said, and rubbed her back in small circles, something that always helped to calm her when she was feeling stressed and anxious about one thing or another. She hiccuped and looked up at him with her red-rimmed eyes, sad and beautiful, and nodded gravely, finally coming to her senses.

"What is wrong with me?" She sniffled, gave him one more tender hug, and then went back to her horse as if she hadn't just been acting a bit crazy. He sighed at the antics these Stark girls liked to kill him with, and then mounted his steed and led the girls further south to the ship that would take them to undeniable freedom.

 


	13. Arya

Chapter 13: Arya

"You're going to make water _again,_ Sansa?"

Arya's whine went unanswered as her sister dismounted and slithered into the nearby thicket of bushes to relieve herself yet again. _That's like the tenth time today,_ Arya thought, annoyance filling her at the frequent stops. She desperately wanted to reach the northern city. Initially she had expected travel to be fun and jam-packed, but in reality it was only sleeping on the cold, hard ground and listening to Sansa and Sandor fight or fuck. She looked back at Sandor, the sack of food hanging from the saddle. _There's also the crappy meals,_ she thought with a frown, and sighed as they waited for her sister to come back and mount her horse, which had taken quite the liking to Sansa, as everyone did.

"How much time does she need to take a piss?" Arya made a noise of impatience and slouched in her saddle. Sandor only shrugged his broad shoulders, grunted his own impatience, and dismounted to go stomping after her pretty sister, who was probably lost in the trees by now. When he disappeared into the thick foliage, Arya rubbed her head, wished for the pounding headache she had to vanish and leave her be. She didn't _mean_ to get angry with her companions. It just sort of happened out here in the northern wildernesses with the cold and the lack of luxury fraying her nerves. Arya was not a proper lady, but she still appreciated a featherbed and a delicious meal when she had them. She gave another melodramatic sigh as the couple burst out of the trees and into her range of sight and hearing.

"I just don't understand why you have to be such an idiot," Sansa was telling Sandor, prim little nose upturned as she made her way to her mare, already swishing her tail around at Sansa's reappearance. Arya saw how the corner of Sandor's mouth was twitching and knew that they were back into an argument. She figured it was the one they had started yesterday. It had been instigated when they had spotted a village and Sandor had refused to go forth and stay a night at the inn or buy any supplies, much to Sansa's disapproval.

"I had no idea you wanted to get caught by your brother's men, little bird," he growled as he too jumped atop his own horse. "Am I another cage you wish to flee?" Sansa was red now, and not a pretty shade at that. She started yelling at Sandor, making Arya's head pound more incessantly, more intensely, and Sandor only barked back his own harsh words until he was fuming silently and Sansa was in angry tears. Arya felt like smacking then both across the face. She was tired of the same stupid arguments.

"You make me want to hit you both," she told them, voice dripping with scorn and annoyance, and they both gave indignant snorts at the same time. _True love_ , Arya thought, bitter amusement making her tilt her lips in a smile. They continued to ride in silence, silence that clouded Arya's mind with memories of the past. She thought of King's Landing, of the last time she saw her father alive, and then of how in a matter of torturous seconds his head was rolling on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor and he was alive no more. Then she thought of Yoren, honorable, gruff Yoren, who had stolen her out of the snake pit and made her a boy. She recalled the weeks of travel with the Night's Watch recruits, the rapers and the killers and the thieves all bound to a life in cold solitude to avoid death like a bunch of cowards, which they were. Her head was invaded by the boy with the bull's helm then, her stubborn, stupid bull. She almost felt like crying when she remembered how he had refused to keep going with her, how he abandoned her and left the pack. Arya's melancholy memories splintered and fell apart at the sound of Sansa sobbing, _again_.

"I'm sorry, Sandor," she gasped at the silent man, who was just as uncomfortable as he always was when Sansa decided to become a blubbering mess, which was pretty frequently these days. "I didn't mean to call you an idiot, or craven, or rude," the tears flowed even more as she repeated the names she had called her husband in her small bout of rage not an hour ago. Sandor grunted, tried to tell her it was fine, but she continued to sob and plead for forgiveness. "You're the best man I've ever met. You're quick and brave and I'm sorry," she cried out her apology once more before Sandor had enough and decided to take another break so that he could hold Arya's hysterical sister close and give her comfort.

Arya felt like throwing herself off a cliff right then.

* * *

 

She looked down at her smallclothes and cursed aloud, drawing Sandor's attention.

"What is it, little wolf?" He sat several feet away in front of their fire for the night, and Sansa sat next to him, curled up against his side like a small animal burrowing for warmth, which she was, in some sense. Arya was squatting behind a tree near their small camp, taking a piss, and looking down at the bloody mess in her smallclothes and on the insides of her slim thighs. _Fucking perfect,_ she thought, anger coiling inside her cramping belly. Her moonblood was just another burden for their small traveling party since now they would have to stop for her to relieve herself just as much as Sansa, and she would need cloth to avoid bleeding all over the damn place. In that moment, she regretted being born a female.

"Got my buggering moonblood," she muttered as she walked back to the camp, and Sandor barked a laugh. She stuck out her tongue and stayed frozen like that when Sansa suddenly exploded up from her prone form, as she spent most of her time lounging about in her constant state of laziness, her eyes looking like huge jewels. Then she was on her feet, running to where Arya had only just emerged from, and Sandor was moving behind her, trying to get an explanation as to why she was acting so strangely. Seeing no other option, Arya stuck her tongue back in her mouth and followed the pair.

"-it's been weeks, Sandor! It's the only explanation-" Arya found Sansa leaning against a tree, Sandor standing tall before her. She had been speaking until Sandor interrupted her. "But the bloody tea! Didn't you take the tea?" Sansa's eyes widened, looking like they would fall out of her lovely head any second now, and her small hand flew to her pretty mouth, a round circle of realization. She knew then that this was no simple matter, and some part of her felt bad for invading their privacy like she was that very moment, but she stayed there anyway, listening to them talk about something that appeared serious.

"I-I forgot that time," she was pale as bone, tears threatening to spill once more, and Sandor drew a breath, knowing their fate was sealed by whatever it was that Sansa had forgotten to do one time. "We went to sleep and then the next day my mother took it, and after that I was trapped inside my chambers and so worried that we would never get out," she reached out to him and he went into her arms unthinkingly, instinctively. Arya decided to speak up then.

"What in the hells is going on?" Sansa jumped at her question, Sandor merely growled his displeasure at having been watched by her. Sansa was crying now, big fat tears unlike the others she had shed throughout the last three weeks, her bottom lip trembling as she stared at her little sister. Arya's brow furrowed then, concern blooming in her chest for her sister and her good-brother, knowing that something had gone wrong.

"I'm pregnant," Sansa whispered, voice unsteady as the rest of her slender figure, and Arya felt her whole world tilt just the slightest bit. She looked at Sansa's tummy then, and even though she knew it couldn't possibly be big and swollen, she was still disappointed when she glimpsed the flat surface of her sister's abdomen. It wasn't something too crazy to believe. The two of them were always fucking, and at Winterfell even more so. It was only a wonder how her sister had actually let Sandor's seed take inside of her, actually bloom into the potential for life.

"Now we need to find you a midwife," Sandor muttered, and released the still-shocked Sansa from his embrace to go back to camp. The girls followed behind, and when Arya finally managed to get a cloth for her moonblood, she retired to her bedroll and fell into sleep with the sound of Sandor cooing something sickly sweet into Sansa's ear.

* * *

 

They had been following the White Knife for some time now, maybe a week or two. Arya stared at it now, gleaming and pristine, frost edging around it, promising an icy crossing. She shivered just remembering how cold it was when they had crossed it, weeks ago, in order to erase their scents and get one step closer to White Harbor.

"What're you thinking about?" Sansa was next to her, all bundled up to look like some small bear cub thanks to Sandor and his more intensive protectiveness of her and their unborn child, Tully blue eyes staring into hers, so much like their father's eyes. Arya only shrugged, readjusted her hands on the reins, and looked down at Sansa's belly to see if there was any progress in that department. It had been a week, give or take, since Sandor and Sansa realized that they would soon be parents, and since then Sandor had been treating her like as if she was made of glass, not that she was complaining, but Arya only thought of the time his gentleness took. They should have been at White Harbor already, but they had stopped at another village not long ago to seek some advice on Sansa's delicate state and that had taken precious riding time from their days.

"Just wish we were there already. I'm tired of feeling so vulnerable, so weak," she spat, and Sansa's eyes melted into understanding, for she knew all too well what it was to feel and be weak and powerless. "I keep feeling like they'll catch up to us, take us back," she told her sister, and Sansa reached a dainty hand to her slim shoulder, squeezed it gently, reassuringly, and smiled that nice, steady smile of hers.

"So do I, sometimes," she sighed, and Arya marveled at how pretty a sound it was. Everything her sister did was pretty or sweet. It had once been the reason for her resentment towards Sansa, but now it was just something that endeared her towards her. "But I don't think they will. They'll expect us to go South, or maybe to the Wall to plead with Jon," she said, bit her rosy lip, expression thoughtful. Arya missed Jon sorely. She had only ever seen him once during her most recent stay at Winterfell, when they had first gotten back and Jon had decided he absolutely needed to see his little sister. Resigned sadness hovered over her at the thought of never seeing her bastard brother again, now that they would live in Essos. She looked back at Sansa's belly, trying to glimpse the life that was taking form within.

"What did the midwife tell you?" Sansa smiled, all giddy now that she had accepted that she was pregnant, and moved a hand to her stomach, which was merely a small, pitiful bump. Arya remembered the midwife. She had been tall, strong, built like a man really, and shrewd. She'd also looked at Sansa like as if she was insane for having married such a brutish, ugly man, but Sansa said she hadn't cared, and neither did Arya. In the end, they were married out of love, and that was what mattered.

"She said her guess was that I'm more than two months along, maybe more towards three," she said, this strange gleam in her eye," and that this traveling will have to end soon if I want my babe to be well," she sighed, lips pursed in worry, and then looked towards Sandor, who was riding a few feet ahead, most likely eavesdropping like the nosy hound he is. "How much longer, love?" Her question was saccharine, and Arya instantly knew that she would be cross with the both of them once evening came along. She would probably curse and yell at Sandor, maybe bitch at Arya, and after fuming for a while she'd dissolve into apologetic tears and beg their forgiveness. Arya felt all too familiar with the vicious cycle of her sister's mood swings.

"Look ahead," he said and when they did they were greeted with the faint outline of one of the biggest cities in Westeros on the horizon," might be a day, maybe two until we reach it," he informed them, voice gruff, but Arya could hear the relief in it. She was relieved too. They had actually made it, had actually escaped the clutches of her brother.

The next day they found themselves right outside the city gates, asking for admittance, trying not to feel anxious at the sight of the sheer amount of Stark banners hanging from White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you guys wanted some drama on the road, but they're traveling in the North, which is more quiet, reserved than the South. 
> 
> (Plus stuff is going down next chapter.)


	14. Sandor

Chapter 14: Sandor

He looked out the window of their small room, watched the Stark men walk about the city, eyes keen and predatory.

There was not that many, Sandor was sure he could take on the whole lot of them, and that was in order to make sure the smallfolk did not catch on to the fact that these men were here for a reason, two very important reasons actually; the princesses. Robb Stark knew that if word spread throughout the North that his sweet, maidenly sister was not so maidenly, no one would have her and his chance at a token alliance would crash and burn.

"How many is there?" Arya had her thin arms around Sansa, comforting the woman who was beside herself with worry. He looked back out the small slit and counted. It didn't take long, and Arya's shoulders sagged in relief when he turned back to her quickly.

"Mayhaps eight, ten at the most," he growled, angry at himself for not thinking of a more elaborate plan, something they would not have foreseen. Now there was a handful of Stark men looking at all the men, women, and children that passed by, searching for a shock of red hair, wild grey eyes, and a tall, hulking warrior. As if they didn't have enough to worry about, now they had to make sure they were not spotted, not dragged back to the King and his probably very wroth mother.

"You can take them," she said, all youthful confidence and unfailing admiration for his swordsmanship. He sighed then, took a seat on the large, lumpy bed on the other side of his anxious wife, took a small hand in one of his great big ones.

"Going to the docks," he told the girls, watched the worry in their eyes multiply. "I'll see if I can find us a ship, one leaving soon," he added, voice gruff, and kissed Sansa's cheek before leaving the room, armored and armed.

As soon as they had entered the city they had searched for an inn to hide, somewhere to rest and plot their next step. They had managed to find one rather quickly and then spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in the one room. The innkeep didn't seem any wary of them, and so Sandor decided it was safe to remain there. He made his way down the stairs now, passing through the common room filled to the brim with sailors and whores, all curses and catcalls in the corner.

The moment he stepped out onto the nice, cobbled streets of the city and inhaled the fresh seawater air, he was reminded of King's Landing and the sharp contrast between the two. In King's Landing the air was perpetually stale and suffocating, reeking of sweat and whores and shit, and the streets were narrow and crowded, always filled with the nasty smallfolk born and bred in the putrid capital scurrying around like rats, which were also present. He glimpsed the white washed walls, the tiled, slanted roofs of the homes surrounding him, and thought that in another life, one where he hadn't been scarred and ruined, where he hadn't fallen in love with the Princess in the North, he would have liked to live here.

* * *

When he got back to their little room at the inn he had a bundle under his arm, a bottle of black hair dye within.

"Sansa," he said, trying to keep his voice soft in order to disarm her, wound tight as she was, and she quickly looked to the bottle in his hands, freshly plucked from the sack it had been hidden in. Arya looked too and Sandor saw her eyes grow soft at the thought of her sister dying her hair coal black, losing a bit of herself in order to escape detection. She squeezed Sansa's hand, which was enveloped in her left one, and then stood to look out the window, the only thing she could do. Sansa stared long and hard, and for a second he thought she would refuse, throw foul words at him, maybe cry a bit, but in the end she merely nodded her head, rose from the bed with her steel spine straightened, and neared him to begin changing her hair color.

  He sat her down then, uncapped the bottle, spread the inky liquid into her beautiful, fiery curls, watched as the ink stained them. While he staunched the flames of her hair he told them about the cog he had found, bound for Pentos the next morning. It had been a stroke of luck, but at the same time he recognized how seedy the captain was, that what was in his holds was probably illegal, and knew that they would have to take the risk in order to escape. All the other vessels in the outer harbor were only just arriving, or were bound to go farther east, beyond Pentos, which is where Sandor thought it best to head. _Look how well your thinking's done us,_ he thought then, bitter at himself, bitter at Robb Stark's keen mind, bitter at everything.

"Little wolf," he called for Arya, and then she was there, awaiting his next words. "Get one of the maids from downstairs to fill a bath for your sister," he ground out, heard her footsteps as she obeyed, and continued rubbing his wife's soft hair with the thick dye. He had bought it on his way back from the harbor, from some small street merchant who was selling things such as colourful dyes and fragrant powders and lavish soaps from one of the Free Cities. He thought about the horses then, how he would need to sell them or get rid of them somehow. They would not need such shaggy beasts in Essos, where it was hot and arid, where they would hopefully not need to flee. 

Sansa said nothing and neither did he, and then the maids were bursting into the room, which was devoid of a bolt unfortunately, and filling a wooden tub with steaming water for his little bird. Arya came in as they left, curled up on the bed to take a nap while her sister bathed and raved, cried, or chirped. Her moods were still a mystery to him. Arya had already gotten it figured out, so her getting some sleep was not a very good sign to Sandor. _Means she doesn't want to be awake to deal with it,_ he thought as he helped Sansa out of her tattered dress and all that was beneath. 

He fought his rising arousal as he did his best to ignore her swollen breasts, big and round, and the curves of her body, all supple and soft, and simply help her into the bath. She sunk into the water slowly, savoring the feeling of the hot liquid washing away the grime hugging onto her creamy skin, and Sandor began to worm his hands into her hair, washing out the dye gently, already missing her auburn locks. Sandor leaned down and placed a kiss to the crown of her head, once the dye was rinsed out and her hair was as dark as a raven's feather, and he could hear the sound of her lips spreading into a smile, knowing that he would always be there, always love her. She tilted her head back and caught his eyes. 

"I love you," she said as tears welled in her sapphire eyes, all big and full of overwhelming adoration, and he nodded and kissed her nose, her chin, her pink lips. She tasted like fear and anxiety and something so uniquely Sansa; like lemons and sugar and spice all wrapped up together, like he imagined lemon cakes would taste. He wanted so badly to be on the ship then, to stop having to look over his shoulder every waking moment, sometimes even in his sleep. "We're so lucky to have you," she whispered, and Sandor noticed how her hand splayed over her little bump to tell him exactly who _we_ was. 

"I'm the lucky one, little bird," he whispered in his raspy voice against the smooth skin of her forehead, eyes closed with the sheer craziness of it all. That _he_ had a wife, one that was kind, strong, and beautiful, and that he would one day soon get to hold a newborn babe, _his_ newborn babe, in his arms, was something he had never even dreamed of since that fateful day when Gregor had shoved his young face into the searing coals and disfigured him, torn his soul to shreds. Shreds that Sansa had come along and sewn back to almost wholeness, almost completely better. "Let's get you out of this bath and into bed," he said suddenly, remembering that they had a ship to catch befote dawn. 

"Yes, that would be nice," she hummed back at him, began to lift herself from the bath with the help of Sandor's sure hands, and then wiped herself with a blanket when she was out, trying to rid herself of the excess moisture. Sandor snatched up her spare clothing, slipped it over her head when she was dry, and then gathered her into his strong arms for a tender embrace when she was fully dressed. He simply relished contact with her, with his little bird. He could feel Sansa yawning something fierce with her pretty little mouth, and smiled at how endearing her simple actions were. How a smile or a laugh or even a sneeze made his heart swell with love and longing for her. He tilted her face up, kissed her full lips, and then led her to the bed, where he lay down next to her for a night of sweet sleep. 

* * *

A thud penetrated the fogginess of sleep clouding Sandor's mind. 

Then there was a muffled curse, a whimper, and he was up, reaching for the sword near the bed, ready to cut down anyone who had broken into their room. He cursed, wishing for his eyes to adjust to the dim light faster, and when they did he was met with the sight of three men trying to drag Sansa, thrashing and crying out, from the bed and another just entering the room. Arya was on her feet already, two men _at_ her feet, throats a bloody mess, and another two fighting her into a corner of the room. Even in the pre-dawn light, the Stark sigils on their armor were as subtle as a siege, sending alarms off in his head in a matter of seconds. 

He rose then, with the beautiful, lethal grace of a killer, and swung his sword at the man nearest him, hardly more than a boy, obviously untrained in the art of war since Sandor was able to take him down easily by delivering a fatal blow to the soft, delicate flesh of his throat. There was the familiar wet sucking noise and then he was gone, quick as that he no longer existed in this world. He looked up and in the feeble light he could see Arya's bloodthirsty eyes as she swiped at one of the men-at-arms trying to restrain her, capture her. He searched for Sansa and found her on the ground, dagger out and threatening one of the men, who looked amused at her slender form daring to challenge his, strong and trained. 

"I'll kill you," she growled at him, and made a feral stab at his head, catching him above one bushy eyebrow, much to his chagrin. He laughed mockingly, grabbed Sansa, and tucked her into his arms, trying to leave the room with at least one princess to bring back to his king. Before he could move towards the man stealing his wife from him, there was another before Sandor, trying to kill him quickly, making his movements sloppy and rushed. Sandor decided to play the offensive then, overpowering the weaker, clumsier man almost ridiculously easily, and then making quick work of eliminating him while another one came behind him in a sorry attempt to catch him unawares. 

He spun on his heels deftly, threw his blade against his, and as the man was able to return his hits and even slash out with his own, Sandor knew that he was the leader here, the one most skilled, and recognized that this man would take some time to stomp into the ground. They were getting into it, the heat of battle making sweat fall into Sandor's eyes even though it was chilly in the northern city, when he saw an opening, how the man favored his left leg. 

Sandor was about to take the plunge, put this man to rest, when the Stark man suddenly fell with a grunt, like a puppet with his strings cut loose. Arya stood before him, slim and deadly, a ferocious look in her steel eyes, and drove her skinny blade into his vulnerable throat, silencing him for good. He wasn't happy she had taken his kill, but was glad to be rid of him anyway. He looked around then, surveyed the damage they had inflicted before the light of dawn had even entered the room. Sansa was in the doorway, blood spattering the gown she had slipped into only hours past, a look of guilt blended with satisfaction on her face. Arya only stood there, outwardly calm, but Sandor could _feel_ the storm raging beneath her pale skin. 

"We need to leave. Now," he growled, began gathering their saddlebags and the sacks of food he had prepared for the journey, and the girls began to dress, wearing cloaks that would conceal their faces. When he was ready to go out the door he looked at them. Sansa looked a proper wench, her face eclipsed by the hood of the cloak but her midnight hair tumbling out from within. He nodded towards the door and then they were off, walking through the wide, cobbled streets of White Harbor towards the cog awaiting three passengers to Pentos.

* * *

 

 He let out a heavy breath of relief when he finally set foot on the deck, eyes trained on the continent they were leaving behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...sorry if it's unrealistic to some of you, but this is supposed to have a happy ending so just enjoy that they're alive :))


	15. Catelyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to check in on Robb and Catelyn.
> 
> Thank you again for comments and kudos, you guys are the best :))

Chapter 15: Catelyn

She felt like a burning torch, alight with fury. Robb was beside her, equally angry, equally ashamed at the reports from White Harbor.

"You're saying my sisters and Clegane were there, in the city, and they managed to escape?" His question was harsh, cutting, and made the maester shrivel in fear. If she were anyone else she would feel sorry for the man, for he was simply the messenger, but she was not, she was the mother of the two girls who had just slipped from their fingers and evaded being captured by Stark men, loyal men. She felt like all the will and hope was fleeing from her body that very second, wanted to just go to bed, to simply _rest._

"Yes, Your Grace. Lord Manderly writes that the Stark men you had sent had them, but when they failed to report back to the New Castle by dawn he sent out his own men and found slaughter in the room the three had been staying at," he squeaked, most likely regretting being sent as maester to the King in the North, where everyone was more brutal, more cold. Catelyn recalled when she had first come North, back when Robb was still in her belly and Ned was in some other woman's arms making a bastard. She hated it at first, hated the cold and the people and the Old Gods that were prominent here.

"Were all the men I sent killed?" His tone was pinched, displeased, and his fists were clenched so tight that his knuckles were white as flour. When the maester nodded she saw her son deflate even further. They were gone, gone from the kingdom, and they had no idea where to. Robb dismissed the maester and then turned to his mother, the light from the hearth flickering, making strange shapes dance over his tired face, heavy with the stress of the war, of finding his sisters. "What do I do, mother?" He begged her, and she thought of the little boy with auburn curls and cerulean eyes at her breast. She clasped his hands in hers, looked into his eyes, and thought aloud.

"We'll have to look into the Free Cities it seems. Send groups of men to scourge the coast and if we can't find them there then maybe they'll be further into Essos. It'll take time but I'm sure th-" she stopped when Robb ripped his hands from hers, uncertain anger in his eyes.

"I can't spend my men looking for two little girls who decided they wanted to leave, mother," he spat, brow furrowed, though Catelyn did not know exactly know whom he was angry at. To her it seemed like he was angry at everyone, at the world. She stood from her seat, tall and slender, and looked down at her king.

"You cannot let them go, Robb. They are your sisters, they are your alliances. We _need_ them. Do you think being a king only means winning battles? You've won the crown, now you must keep it on your head, and to do that you need the girls, you need marriages," she growled, flames of fury licking at her insides at how readily he would give up such a great tool, a necessity. "We must find them, Robb. We _must,_ " she said, voice breaking at the last word because she could not stand the thought of fully losing the last of her children. They had to find the girls, even if it took a thousand men.

"No, mother. We cannot spend all our resources, my resources," his eyes shone as be clarified who was in control, " on finding a woman deflowered and married, and a wild, unruly girl who will not do her duty," he sighed, but she could feel the firmness of his voice, knew that he was no longer willing to entertain the possibility of sending more men after her daughters. She was about to argue, about to defy, when she remembered her House words. _Family. Duty. Honor._ She knew her place like she knew every new wrinkle on her handsome face, every stroke of blue in Robb's eyes, every word Sansa had gushed about Jeffrey's gallantry in the beginning.

"As you say, Your Grace," she said, while her mind was foggy and detached, trying not to feel ashamed at how weak she was, how she longed to be stronger, more powerful. Robb looked relieved to have seen her back down from the argument, but the weary look in his eyes remained.

"Good. I'm to see to my duties now, as you should yours," he said in a lighter voice, willing for the tension between them to evaporate, disappear into nothingness, and then he was was gone from his chambers, to train or plot or simply think somewhere were she was not.

She sighed and rose from the chair she had been sitting at for more than an hour, feeling her aging body protest, and moved to Queen Roslin's chambers, hoping to speak to her good-daughter, see how her pregnancy was coming along. A soft voice floated through the door in response to her strong knock, and when she entered the girl was sitting near the hearth, a book in her hands and tears in her eyes. When she realized who had entered she wiped the tears from her eyes frantically, planted a fake smile on her face, and tried her best to appear somewhat not miserable. She failed.

"Your Grace. I only wanted to see how you were feeling," Catelyn chirped, the picture of courtesy,  and moved towards the little queen. Roslin smiled shyly at her and wrung her small hands together, trying to muster the strength to speak louder than a whisper, at least in Catelyn's opinion. She could not deny that the girl was pretty for a Frey, fertile too, but she was silent and weeping all the time. Even Catelyn, who had been groomed to marry a Stark and then had to marry the younger brother after her beloved had been murdered, had not cried nearly as much as Roslin Frey, who had begun her perpetual sobbing the second she was married to Robb.

"I'm doing well, my lady. Some sickness from the babe, is all," she said in her weak little voice, eyes focused on Catelyn's eyebrows instead of her eyes. She could not keep her lips from flattening in disapproval. _She was not meant to be Queen,_ she thought, disappointed in her son's bride, disappointed that he had been offered virtually no acceptable choice. When Catelyn thought of a better bride she always pictured Dacey Mormont or Alys Karstark, true women of the North. They might not be perfect little ladies, but they were strong, brave, what was needed of a queen.

"I know you do not love my son," she told the girl, and her eyes widened as she tried to protest that she did, that she loved Robb with all her heart, but Catelyn shushed her, told her to quiet. "It is natural. I did not love my Ned for quite some time," she said, gave her a reassuring smile, which she returned gingerly," but that did not stop me from doing my duty," her tone was steel, her eyes ice, as she looked at her weak, feeble good-daughter, wishing she didn't _have_ to do this.

"This nonsense, this weeping every waking hour, this pouting like a child in front of guests, must stop. You are the Queen, Roslin. You must stop behaving like a foolish little girl and behave like a grown woman," she lectured the girl, and cursed silently when she glimpsed the warm tears swimming in her big, brown eyes. She was on her feet in a second, advancing on the girl like a true wolf bitch, grabbing onto the collar of one of the pretty southron dresses she continued to wear in a silent act of defiance, since she did not have the courage to actually voice her defiance.

"This must stop. Grow up, Roslin. Act like the Queen you are, whether you like it or not. You are not a child, you are a wife, a queen, and soon," she stopped to look at the bump that protruded almost grotesquely from her frail frame," you will be mother to my son's children and heirs," she spat, brought her closer to her face by tugging on the collar harshly, high on the rush that this power over small, mousy Roslin brought her. The Queen nodded her empty little head frantically, easily conveying her dedication to obey, and Catelyn released her immediately, warm smile back on her lips.

"Good," the Lady of Winterfell said, and then walked out of the Queen's chambers, feeling like she was on top of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Catelyn's a little...unhinged.


	16. Sansa

Chapter 16: Sansa

The gentle rocking of the ship made her want to stay in bed all day, warm and wrapped in the arms of her giant husband.

"Sansa," someone said in a high pitched voice, a whine, and when Sansa opened her eyes she was met with the sight of her sister at her bedside. "Sandor said he would train with me this morning," she pouted, eyes staring at her sleeping husband in an accusatory manner, an impatient foot tapping against the wooden plank flooring of their cramped cabin. She didn't know how her little sister had managed to sneak into their own cabin, but now that she was here to demand Sandor's sword she could not do anything about it.

"Fine," she croaked out from beneath their blankets, and then nudged Sandor awake with a small hand on his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open quickly, most likely expecting danger, but when they focused on her face they softened with love and recognition. He leaned forward then, kissed her lips softly, sweetly, and only tore away from her when Arya began to protest.

"Aye! I didn't come here to see more of this," she said rather loudly, and then moved to try and drag Sandor out of bed, pulling on his arms with all her might, much to his amusement. He humored her and let her think she was getting somewhere, and then, before Sansa could so much as blink, Arya was in the bed between Sandor and her, and she knew what she had to do. She buried her long, slender fingers into her sister's side and tickled until Arya was begging for release, pleading with Sansa and Sandor to cease their tickling.

"St-top. P-Please," Arya gasped, delight in her voice, and Sansa laughed even harder. She felt light, they all felt light here on this ship, this ship where they were as safe as could be, far away from The Seven Kingdoms, far from Robb, and mother, and Joffrey.

When Sandor and Arya finally left the cabin, there was a faint bruise blooming on Sandor's unburned cheek from one of Arya's little fists.

* * *

She stood on the deck, looking at the expense of sparkling water all around them, capable of completely engulfing the large cog where they had been residing for a week. It had been the best week in Sansa's life. There was no worrying about Robb or mother, no worrying that their food would run out and that they would starve, no worrying what anyone at all thought of the strange group they made. Here she was not Sansa Stark, future Lady of Winterfell and sister to the King in the North, she was only some big man's woman, only a common woman, and Arya was not even a girl, here she was a boy, a boy who could do as he wished. 

"Why that face?" Sandor was behind her then, hands on her hips, breath hot on the back of her neck. She wondered about Pentos suddenly, how they dressed, and ate, and lived there. They would need to try and fit in, dress the same, maybe even learn the language. She turned to her husband, a coy little smile on her face. 

"I was simply thinking about how we are actually on this ship, actually going away," she said, voice sweet and dreamy, like a warm summer sky, and placed a kiss on the skin his unburnt jaw, wrinkling her pretty nose at the stubbly beard he was neglecting. He chuckled and slithered his arms around her slowly expanding belly, pulling her into his warm, wide chest. She leaned against him, sighed in a way that communicated her adoration, and he buried his hooked nose in her coal hair, pulling her scent of lavender and lemons deep into his lungs, wishing it would never escape him.

"Arya's got her attention elsewhere," he murmured into her hair, tone low and lusty, and the wetness in her smallclothes was all the response she needed to twirl out of his arms and drag him to the blissfully empty cabin. On the way she spotted some of the crew members, noticed how their eyes failed to focus on her body like they had when they'd first boarded, and knew that Sandor had to have had a hand in it. _Probably threatened them, my ferocious hound,_ she thought to herself, arousal stirring turbulently. They were rounding a corner, just about to reach their cabin, when they bumped into a woman, a lavishly dressed woman with jewels wrapped around her fingers, neck, and silver hair, and aristocratic features on her face. 

"Greetings," she said, voice rich and exotic, and Sansa knew in an instant that this woman was not Westerosi. She was tempted to curtsy, to bow her head in acknowledgement of her power, but then reminded herself that she was not a Stark here on these waters, in this reality, and simply smiled an open smile at the beautiful noblewoman.

"Hello," she responded, voice warm and friendly, and tightened her grip on Sandor's hand, trying to take some of his courage for her own. The woman swiveled her smoky lilac eyes onto him and made the error of slipping her gaze to his scars, which would have been harmless if her eyes hadn't widened the slightest almost unintelligible bit. But Sansa noticed, and so did Sandor, and within a second she knew that this woman, exotic and friendly and beautiful, knew who he was already, was probably plotting on selling them to Cersei that very instant. 

"You are Sandor Clegane," she states, not a question but a cold, hard fact, and Sansa tenses up, ready to run, to kill another person in order to keep her loved ones safe. The weight of the dagger strapped to her thigh seems to multiply as the foreign woman stares at her husband with amethyst eyes, waiting for his next move. The feeling of a man's throat giving way before the dagger's blade comes to her suddenly, and there's a strange sort of pride deep within her, obscuring the guilt that came with having such a kind heart.

"Don't need to remind me what my bloody name is," he spat, and tried to nudge Sansa into standing behind him, but she was insistent in standing before him, nose to nose with the woman, her alabaster skin shining even in the fuzzy light below deck. The woman only chuckled, a sweet musical sound, and held out her hand unusually. The couple stared at it oddly until she spoke again, drawing their eyes to her handsome face.

"I mean no harm," she smiled, full rouged lips looking so delectable, even to Sansa, and spread her hands," I am only a Lysene merchant," she leaned forward then, almost conspiratorially," and I have no loyalty to the Iron Throne," she whispers, a wolfish smile on her ruby lips, and for a second, Sansa wonders if they would taste like strawberries. Then Sandor moves behind her, and she remembers who she is and looks at the woman again, at her silver curls and moonlight skin and pale lavender eyes, almost blue in the unreliable light.

"My name is Sansa," she tells her, sweet voice cautious, and then tugs on Sandor's arm lightly to indicate him," and this is my husband, Sandor," she introduced, though the woman already knew who her husband was, and the silver-haired woman smiled nicely, almost invitingly, then held her hand out again. Sansa only stared at it with furrowed brows, confused as to what she wanted for her to do. The woman laughed, the sound seeming smooth as Arbor Gold on the tongue, and clasped Sansa's hand with hers, moving the joined hands up and down in a wierd shaking motion.

"My name is Larra," she informed them, lavender eyes warm and molten, and held out her hand for Sandor to do the same. He took it gingerly, did the peculiar shaking motion, and then let his heavy hand drop to his side quickly. "Why is the Princess escaping the North, if I might ask?" Her eyebrow was arched, cat eyes full of curiosity and something akin to wonder. Sansa took a breath, let her lips tilt in a true smile, one she hadn't shown anyone but Arya and Sandor in quite a while, and then motioned for her to follow them to the cabin. 

"It's a long story. You might need to sit," she said, smile twisting with amusement as Larra chuckled softly behind them, a beautiful sound, and followed them into the limited space of their cabin to talk.

* * *

  He kissed the flesh of her navel, a small caress, gentle as fluttering butterfly wings, and moved lower.

To her tiny little bump, the one that was holding their unborn child, keeping it safe and protected until it was time for it to come into the world kicking and wailing, as most babes do. She wanted to cry at the sweetness of it, of him. She hadn't expected him to act like this, so devoted and committed to the idea of being a father so soon after they had escaped. She looked down at his form hovering over her tummy again and blinked away tears when the onslaught of tender feelings hit her hard. 

Then he was moving lower, dangerously low, and a whole other wave of feelings was hitting her. She felt so wanton lying there on the bed, legs spread open for him, but then she remembered that he was her husband, and that this was right. 

Of course, it had never been anything but right with Sandor, not even when they had first made love, heavy and lusty with drink. She still remembered that night like as if it were yesterday. Robb had held a feast, she recalled vividly, in order to celebrate a decisive victory over the Lannisters. Sansa was feeling rather unwell that night, she remembered that too, and drank goblet after goblet of sweet, sticky ale until her mother had decided she was not fit for company and ordered Sandor to escort her back to her chambers. He had been swaying just as much as her, the drunkard, but when they were at her door and she looked into his eyes, the emotions she saw were pure and sober. 

She had kissed him then, dragged him into her room in his state of pliant shock, and tipped him into her bed, where he fucked her long and hard for the first time.  She didn't regret it for a single second, even when he had apologized and offered his life in repayment for what he had stolen, at least in his mind he had stolen something from her. _He didn't take, I gave,_ she thought, and gasped when his mouth sucked on her lower lips. 

They made love until Arya came banging on the door, summoning them to supper. 

* * *

 

"Your breasts are huge," Larra said, the corner of her eyes crinkling as she pointed out the obvious. Sansa only rolled her eyes and took another peck of the bread roll, savoring the flaky goodness. 

"I hadn't noticed," she replied after she had swallowed down the piece, tone deviously sarcastic. She felt on top of the world here on this ship, where she didn't have to be a proper lady, where she had a friend and her family. She patted her bump subconsciously, as if making sure her baby was still there, that this hadn't been a delightful delusion. 

Larra reclined in her plush seat across from Sansa's, dragged the ornate goblet to her rose lips, taking a long pull of her usual Dornish red, and Sansa observed the muscles of her slender neck moving. 

Larra was beautiful to say the least. She had long silver curls that tumbled down to her curvy waist, big lilac eyes that reminded her of a cunning cat's eyes sometimes, and lovely red lips that were permanently smiling. She was kind too, having invited Sansa, even Sandor every now and then, to spend time with her in the opulent cabin she occupied, as she had the profession and coin to afford such luxuries. 

"Tell me," Sansa said and neared the foreigner dramatically," what draws a Lysene merchant to Pentos?" She leaned back afterwards, drinking her own drink of watered down wine, and watched as Larra's eyes unfocused for a second, muddied by past memories more than like. She looked at Sansa then, eyes smart and cunning, reminding her for a second of the Imp. He had been a kind man, devilish and witty. On top of his other merits, he had done his best, which hadn't always been so effective, to help her out in that seventh hell they dub King's Landing.

"Business, sweetling," she purred at the blue eyed beauty, and smiled her little smile, hinting to Sansa that it was plainly more than business. She pushed it no further, though, tired all of a sudden. It happened all too commonly now, feeling tired and achy. She glared at her tummy, silently reprimanding her unborn child for putting her through this, and then excused herself from Larra's company, seeking her husband or her sister. 

She found them on the deck, sparring quite rowdily. Some of the crew members, desperate for entertainment, were loitering about, eyes on her sister and her growing breasts and widening hips. It was not an immediate transformation, as Sansa knew intimately from her own experience, but a slow one, full of surprises. 

Her sister was no beauty, that was a fact, but she was beginning to have a woman's body, flowered and fresh. Though sometimes, when Sansa looked at Arya's long face and grey eyes closely, she found a wild beauty in them, something eye-catching, something that piqued interest. Although Arya had boarded the ship as a boy, throughout the three weeks they had been there it had become more and more apparent to everyone around them that she was not in fact a boy, but a young maiden, her purity something to slaver after to these men. 

_But they wouldn't dare touch her,_ Sansa thought as she looked at Sandor, the way his muscles flexed as he swung his sword at her sister's much skinnier blade. 

He was strong and powerful, and as long as he was with them no one would succeed in harming them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter!


	17. Arya

Chapter 17: Arya

"Dragons," the boy told her, unbroken voice full of awe, and Arya rolled her eyes.

"Aye," she responded, tone unbelieving and uninterested. The boy pouted at her, but continued to trail after her nonetheless. They'd been at sea for weeks, and the small boy, who was a son of one of the crew members, had shadowed her since the first day they had set foot on the cog. Arya had been annoyed at first, but his foreign tongue came in handy and she had managed to wrestle a few lessons out of him in exchange for her recounting of the stupid fairytales Sansa had begged from Old Nan all those years ago.

"Just wait until you see her," he muttered behind her, but Arya paid him no heed. Why would she care about some stupid fictional dragon queen? It sounded like something straight from a myth, and on top of that everyone knew that the dragons, both of them, were gone. The grey plague had seen to the end of the dragons and Robert's Rebellion had seen to the end of the Targaryens, crazy and incestuous and useless.

"I won't see her because she isn't real," Arya snapped, and then climbed below deck, hoping to find Sansa or Sandor. She was bored beyond belief. She had desperately hoped that sailing across the narrow sea would be fun, would fulfill all the promises she had made to herself about the journey to White Harbor, but had been sorely disappointed.

Although it wasn't as adventurous as she imagined, it was had still been a bit intriguing. Unfortunately, the intrigue had faded after about a week on board, and now Arya moped around the deck, counting the days until they would reach land. It had been smooth sailing so far, and favorable winds propelled them towards Essos quickly, to the captain's relief. In only a few weeks they would be in Pentos.

"It's getting hard to move," Sansa said to Larra, hand on her swollen belly, as Arya walked into Sansa's miniscule cabin. She could not spot Sandor anywhere near and wondered where the big warrior was. Her hands twitched to her sword as anxiety to practice filled her to the brim.

"You look fat," she told her pregnant sister, and then sat on the bed next to her. Sansa pinched her skinny left arm, but she was focused on the Lyseni beauty before them. Arya didn't know how to feel about Larra. She was kind, but almost too kind, and exceptionally charming. Larra had managed to accomplish the near impossible: gain Sandor Clegane's friendship. Her lavender eyes were on her now, warm and open.

"How far along are you, darling?" Larra asked Sansa in her sweet singsong voice, and it sent shivers down Arya's spine. She hated pet names with a passion after Cersei Lannister, who had loved to shower Sansa with 'sweetlings' and 'darlings' whenever they spoke. Sansa patted her bump, brow furrowed in thought.

"More than three moons, maybe four," she said to them, and picked up her needlework from besides her to continue making her elegant stitches on a small piece of cloth that would most likely end up on Arya's future niece or nephew. Sansa had been making an innumerable amount of clothes for her unborn child lately, Arya had noticed.

"Have you thought about what I offered?" Larra purred, somehow making the question sound as light as air, as she brought a goblet of her favorite sweet wine, which she drank abundantly, to her rose lips. Arya eyed Sansa as she chewed on her bottom lip, contemplating whatever it was that Larra had brokered with her.

"What did you offer?" Arya asked the foreign woman. Her glittering lilac eyes swivelled onto her long face and absorbed her confused expression, and then her lips spread into an easy smile.

"Simply a place to stay," she said while running her long fingers through her silvery locks. Arya never asked why she was going to Pentos, but now the question festered in her mind like an unattended wound.

"Where?" she asked the older woman, voice probing and childish, and cursed herself for being so blunt. Larra twisted a fine stand of hair around a slender finger, watched her with her clear amethyst eyes. Next to her Sansa swore softly at an uneven stitch mucking up her otherwise perfect work. Above her she could hear hollow footsteps reverberating against the deck, and around her she could hear the forceful waves push and prod at the sturdy wooden planks protecting and transporting them all.

"A friend of mine, rich and powerful with room to spare for a while," she cooed at the girls before her, and Arya watched as Sansa gave her one of her sweet little smiles, one to put the sun to shame, could see the relief beneath the skin and teeth and bone. She knew that Sansa and Sandor were worried about their future housing situation, and although Larra's offer seemed like a godsend, she couldn't help but disapprove. She knew better than to argue with the silver-tongued Lyseni, though, and kept silent.

They spoke for some time, about the weather and the crew and their lives, and Arya felt almost smug when Larra showed interest in her tale of escaping Harrenhall. There was something about her that made one long for her attention, for her approval, for anything at all really.

"You poured soup on them!?" Sansa shrieked at Arya when she spoke of the weasel soup incident, and she felt herself shrink in mild shame.

"No, I got a Faceless man and two Night's Watch recruits to do it for me," Arya tried to calm her sister," one had sharp teeth and yellow skin and the other didn't have a nose!" she told them with intensity, fully grasping just how wild the whole ordeal had been. She had only been a little girl then, and now she was a woman flowered, fourteen and more mature than any nine year old could be, other than Sansa of course. She had always been mature, even as a toddler if her lady Mother's stories were to be believed.

"Ugh," Sansa groaned and put a hand to her forehead, and Larra laughed at the sisters. Arya poked at Sansa until her sister rolled her eyes and nodded, silently letting go of the subject.

"You are very well traveled then?" Larra asked Arya around a mouthful of creamy cheese. Arya thought about all the places she had been and figured she had in fact traveled quite a bit. Other children, weaker ones, perhaps wouldn't have been able to handle even half of what she'd been through the second her father decided to try and dethrone the bastard king that still sat on the Iron Throne. She thought about all the ways she would kill him, and only realized that it was futile after a few moments. In Pentos she would never get the opportunity to throttle the wicked baseborn monster that was Joffrey.

"You could say so," Arya mulled," although my travels haven't been pleasant in the least." Sansa looked up at her gloomy face from beneath her lashes, but then focused back on her needlework as Larra hummed at Arya's tone. She wondered what was going through the older woman's mind.

"Well," Larra sighed, her musical voice mingling with the wind whistling through the cabin," at least you survived."

* * *

 

There, on the horizon, was a speck of land.

Only it was more than a speck. It was a huge speck. A huge speck that, once they'd neared, Arya noticed had high, thick walls and gargantuan manses that littered the outskirts of the city.

Pentos was, in its simplest form, a dream. As they stepped off the ship and onto the stone streets of the foreign city, tiled roofs glimmered in the blazing sun and performers clogged the harbor overflowing with sailors and passengers alike. She looked up at Sansa's pale face and felt the exhilaration coursing through her body slow, remembered that her sister was pregnant and delicate and that this melting pot of people would surely make her anxious about the babe inside her.

She slithered around Sandor's bulky shape and then latched onto her apprehensive sister's arm. Sansa looked down at her and smiled slightly, and after a moment Larra appeared with her servants.

"Soon we'll reach his manse," she told the group, and then shouted some commands to the servants hauling her luggage. They set off to worming through the narrow streets then, making their way slowly to the refuge Larra had so graciously offered to her new friends and their unruly companion.

~

His manse was opulent, grand, everything she had expected from a friend of Larra's.

The estate was bordered by lush grasses and delicate gardens, and farther off Arya spotted a statue of a tall, handsome young man and wondered about the tastes of the man who built and owned the property. She poked Sandor's side and pointed at the statue and he snorted in response.

"Another Renly then," he muttered quietly enough for Sansa to miss, and Arya only became more confused. _What did Renly Baratheon have to do with anything?_

"Larra!" Arya looked ahead and felt like puking. Before the small group and the servants behind them there was a giant ball of a man, obscenely overweight with a smile full of yellow, crooked teeth. When she spotted the yellow of his forked beard, oiled and styled in the way of the Free Cities, she felt the blood rush to her head. She had seen this man before. In another world, in another lifetime.

"Magister Illyrio," she said in her charming voice and neared the tall, fat man. She took a closer look at his beady eyes and knew for certain that he was the man she had spied under the red keep all those years ago, back when she was learning to water dance and chasing after that mangy one-eared cat. Now that she thought back on the moment she had been crouched and poised in the bowels of the Red Keep, listening to the two men talk about her father, she realized they saw his death coming before anyone else had.

"These are my friends," Larra told him and then turned to Arya and her family," Sandor and _Sansa Clegane_ , and Princess Arya Stark," she announced to him, and a sort of panic builded within Arya. She did not- could not - trust this man, this man who had spoken so cavalierly of her father's downfall. Illyrio's eyebrows raised in obvious astonishment at the mention of her sister's marriage and the fact that the missing Stark princesses were right before him, a world away from their home in Winterfell.

"A pleasure," he said to them, voice sweet as honey and untrustworthy as a snake. As he approached them the horrid stench he so desperately tried to stifle with flowery perfumes invaded her nostrils and made her feel more sick than she had at the mere sight of him. She knew then that the stay at his manse would not be pleasant.

"Now, enlighten me," he drew out and focused his small eyes on Sansa's enlarged bump," why are the two Stark girls here in Pentos, in my own manse, and not besides their kingly brother, ready to be married off at any second?" Sansa blushed like the maiden she wasn't and Sandor made a noise of disapproval behind her.

"Because we're not objects," Arya growled from her sister's left side, annoyance buzzing within her. Illyrio smiled, displaying his ruined teeth, and then motioned for them to follow him into the beautiful building.

He guided them through twisting hallways and frivolous decor into a fancy sitting room, complete with huge plush seats and rich tapestries hanging from the walls. He sat his bulky form upon a wide chair and invited them to sit upon a cushioned bench before it. Then, he gestured for his servants to prepare refreshments and turned to his guests.

"Where do your loyalties lie?" he asked them, and Arya did not know what her answer was. In a sense she was loyal to her brother, but who would believe that now that she had betrayed him and left Westeros with her sister and her husband. She could practically hear Sansa's thoughts churning though, and turned to see her sister answer.

"Not Joffrey," she said simply. The man seated in front of them looked pleased and raised a doughy hand to stroke the prongs of his yellow beard. It made Arya feel wierdly uncomfortable.

"Good," Illyrio said to them after a moment of contemplation, a very tense moment of slippery uncertainty as to what he would say. Arya already knew though that his loyalties were not for the Lannisters, but for the princess he had spoken about all that time ago in King's Landing. The one who had been with child. She figured the girl was probably dead now. No one seemed to survive the scramble for power all Houses wanted desperately. 

"Illyrio here is loyal to the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen," Larra piped up from the corner of the large room, where she was standing near a beautiful statue of a woman who looked almost identical to her. Flowing silver locks and curves just about everywhere, and the gorgeous face that came with almost all of the people born in the Free City of Lys. Arya wondered who the model had been.

"Targaryen?" Sandor rasped in question, and Arya imagined the images flashing though his mind. His brother had raped Daenerys's good-sister after having killed her nephew, only a babe, by smashing his head against a stone wall. Everyone knew this, and she was sure the young Queen knew as well. It spelled looming trouble for her scarred good-brother. If she knew her royalty, which she was pretty certain she did considering how much time she spent in the company of kings and queens, she knew how rash and fickle they could be. And what was to stop the Targaryen, young and most likely arrogant, from believing Sandor was a monster and taking his head if she ever came in power?

"Yes," Illyrio sighed," and a proud one too. She's on her way back to me and then she'll go forward to claim the Iron Throne, her _rightful_ seat." His voice was sure and confident, and after hearing all those rumors and witnessing his trust in the girl, Arya knew that there was no question as to who would gain control of the Iron Throne. 

  A servant scurried into the room then, breathless and unsteady. Illyrio's fat face darkened in displeasure at the unseemliness of it all, but he beckoned for the young girl to come closer to him nonetheless. Arya's stomach was in knots at the whole situation. She wanted a warm bed and sleep after the past few weeks, wanted to relax now that they were gone from Westeros. Sansa next to her looked just as worn as she felt. She looked at Larra and noticed the woman moved closer to the Magister, a crease in the smooth skin of her forehead. When the servant finished whispering in Illyrio's ear she left the room as quickly as she had entered.

 "Joffrey Baratheon is dead," he said, mouth wide and sagging cheeks rosy with glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, Larra's purpose was to lead them to Illyrio.


	18. Cersei

Chapter 18: Cersei

In her dreams, she saw the little queen's head of beautiful chestnut curls roll down the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor over and over again, and all felt right in the world.

That was so, until she awoke and remembered her first born son was still rotting away inside the Sept and her horrible _volanqar_ was still alive and well in the dungeons.

"Your Grace," the servant who had roused her from sleep squeaked out beside her large featherbed, quaking like an autumn leaf upon a skinny branch. Cersei felt the black wave of annoyance and grief surging within her, wanted to hurt someone as much as she had hurt since the horrid feast where it all went wrong. She wanted for someone's heart to bleed and clench like hers had.

"Yes?" she snapped at the slight girl, making her tremble with twice the intensity as before. She wanted more sleep, more darkness, more time. She knew soon she would have to face the consequences of her actions, of the beheading of the Tyrell girl.

"The Hand summons you," she said in her thin, high, mousy voice, and it felt like the whole world froze over in reality. Her father would marry her off she knew, would marry her off as many times as it took for her to break. She didn't know if she'd be able to endure any more of the unwilling, ungentle nights that came with marriage, or the idiocy that came with the men of the Seven Kingdoms. She climbed out of bed like the good daughter she was, though, and dressed in the soft, milky light of dawn. When she was decent she crept through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast and into those of the Tower of The Hand, the dread in her stomach rolling tumultuously. _I am a lioness,_ she reminded herself, straightened her back, and strengthened her stride.

He was in his solar, lined face dark and stormy. His green eyes swallowed her whole as she entered and sat before him, unabashed and unbowed. She would not back down, not before him. She was a lioness. Golden and beautiful and untouchable.

"What have you done?" It was a simple question asked in a simple, calculating tone, one he'd used countless times before, but never on her. The man before her, strong and brave and so very, very Lannister, was not her father now. He was only a lion, a lion keeping the family intact and unbroken and proud. It was all he had been trying to do since Aerys had taken Jaime from him, since Tyrion began whoring and drinking, since she gave birth to her brother's children.

"She killed him," she told him, voice cracking in a manner so unlike her usual proud speech." I know she did." Her father remained unmoved, a stone statue still amongst the flying chaos in the world. But Cersei knew the truth, she knew that the little whore had been plotting her brave lion's death from the first, her and the rest of the treacherous House of hers. They had all been thorns hidden beneath lovely petals from the beginning, every single one of them, and now they had paid the price for allowing them so near in Joff's blood.

"It was obvious," he said, tone cold and full of scorn. She wanted to hurt him then, for how much he seemed to simply not care for her dead son. "But now you've turned our only allies against us. You've fanned the flames of this war your son started," he nearly shouted at her, and she could feel her face heat up with guilt and fury.

"We're the Lannisters," she hissed at her father, leaned forward in her seat," no one will take the throne from us, from Tommen," she amended, watched her father's emerald eyes shine with his own ire, his own shame.

"You," he said in his iciest tone of voice," are a liability." He reached for the chain hanging around his neck and carresed the golden hands linked together. Cersei shook her head, rose from her seat in a heartbeat of uncontrollable panic.

"She had to be killed," she pleaded, sounded so infuriatingly young and immature," she was there, and so was Tyrion." Her father's eyes darkened at the mention of his biggest failure, the defect of the Lannister clan. "He gave him the wine!" she screeched at him, trying to make him see that her brother was guilty too, that he deserved the same fate as Margaery.

"Your brother is innocent," he sighed heavily," and you are going to the Rock this instant." She slammed a small hand on the wooden table, unconcerned with just how unseemly she was acting. She didn't want to be a lady, she'd never wanted that. She had always wanted a sword and Casterly Rock and the power that came with a cock.

"You can't," she told him in the sturdiest voice she could muster," Father, you can't send me back. My son needs me," she begged, reached for his hands. But he only pulled them away and looked to the corner of the lavish room.

"You are to remain at our seat until I find you a husband," he ordered, strong and unmovable, and then signaled for something. Figures emerged from behind her, around her, a hand grasping at treasure.

She tried to run, tried to get as far as she could, but the Gold Cloaks were too quick, too strong, too male. Within the hour she was on a ship headed to her home, fuming and silent and _weak,_ a lioness declawed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but I hope it's enjoyed either way.


	19. Sandor/Arya/Robb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen arrives, Arya spies, and Robb plots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait. At first school held me back and then a break up really drained my motivation, but I'm back and feeling better than I have in a while. 
> 
> I really hope y'all enjoy this chapter. I'm trying out a new format. Comments are much appreciated <3

 

 

**Sandor**

 

     It was fitting that a rare storm stirred overhead the night Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, the Stormborn, and claimant to the Iron Throne, came riding into the luxurious manse that had housed Sandor and his small family the past moon.

She came as he settled into bed, Sansa in his arms. The stomping of horses' hooves pounding against the earth and the servants scurrying through the manse sent him to his feet in an instant.

"What is all that commotion?" Sansa asked from beneath the smooth silks covering their bed, sapphire eyes sparkling with fear and uncertainty. Sandor dressed in the light clothing common in Pentos and grabbed his heavy sword, ready for anything. "Sandor." She was sitting up now, the silk pooled around the large bump she had grown. He reached out for her, pulled her into a careful embrace.

"I'll go see what the hells is happening," he murmured into her copper locks, which had returned to their normal autumn leaf color in the weeks after their escape. Then, he was out of the chambers and navigating the palatial home of the fat Magister, eyes darting to every corner, searching for answers in the rich tapestries and words ringing through the place.

When he reached the main room, the one where they had all sat down at their arrival only a moon ago, there was a silver-haired, knight-toting, army-owning, vengeance-seeking Targaryen before Ilyrio, placid as still water, a porcelain doll before the big ball of a man.

"-glad you've finally arrived, Your Grace. We've been awaiting your arrival for quite some time," Illyrio reclined in the great cushion wide enough to fit three, and watched as the young queen's mind worked out the kinks in his announcement. There was movement from farther down the room and when Sandor turned he was met with the hostile eyes of old Barristan Selmy, light and disapproving blue. He grimaced at the aged knight, but turned when the woman spoke.

"We?" her voice rang out, bells in the stillness of the night, sweet and stern. Illyrio's rat eyes wandered from the queen to Sandor's hulking figure at the entrance of the room, and Daenerys' followed behind. When her classic lavender eyes landed on the seared flesh of his face, they did not morph into wide orbs of horror, or flood with disgust and pity. They were analytical, and he silently appreciated her effort in hiding her revulsion from the men in the room. "Who are you?" she asked, eyes roving over his warrior's form, and then added a polite little "ser" after the fact, figuring he was a vile knight, puffed up with honor, and violence, and cruelty.

"I'm no ser," he growled, watched as Selmy stirred behind the small woman, a threat subtle as a maiden's seduction," Your Grace," he amended. Illyrio smiled as the queen neared him, walking on light feet encased in thick leather, tail of her gauzy dress slithering behind her. He stared into her amethyst eyes and did not let go of them, not until she looked back at her faithful, old Selmy, a wilting treasure of a man, for some kind of information on the gargantuan man before her.

"He is Sandor of House Clegane, Your Grace," the man sneered at the non-knight attached to the doorway. Daenerys, nostrils flared slightly, snapped her gemstone eyes back to Sandor, a newfound accusation behind them. Not one of simply being revolting or unpleasant, but one with royal blood, child blood, lathered all over. He was the brother to the horrible, monstrous, unbelievable Mountain, after all. If his own kin was heinous, then so was he. Or at least that was how the Westerosi thought of him. The brother of a monster, also a monster.

"Your family's blood is not on his hands," came a high voice from the other side of the room, another entrance, and Sandor cursed when he realized it was his good-sister, standing straight in her bed robe. Daenerys turned to the youngest Stark, drank in the defiance dancing on her moonlight skin, and frowned. She moved from Sandor, reluctantly, and towards the younger girl, a maiden on the cusp of womanhood. Sandor thought of Sansa at that age. How stupid, how naive, how innocent. She was freshly fallen snow among soggy leaves, clean and pure, lovely and easily spoiled. Arya was nothing like she had been.

"Now, that is one of your newest allies," Illyrio called from his seat," the youngest sister to the King in the North, Robb Stark, currently at war with the Usurper on your Throne over his father's murder," he added when he had acquired the queen's attention. Daanerys seemed pleased with the information, perhaps relieved.

"Where are the dragons?" Arya demanded as she stepped into the softly lit room, bathed in the flickering flames' shadows. Sandor inwardly cursed her tactlessness as the queen's eyes filled with shock and indignation.

"Arya!" came the singsong voice of his wife from behind Sandor, making him groan. Sansa, flushed with secondhand embarrassment, pushed past the big man and into the room that was steadily getting more and more crowded. The queen's look of shock and mild annoyance melted into one of an overwhelmed girl. The room was a raucous tourney, a whirlwind of names and stories that didn't quite fit together. "That's no way to speak to the queen," she chided her younger sister and then pulled on her sleeve, drawing her closer. Sandor noticed how his little wife grew more maternal by the day. She had always been a tad bit overbearing, but she was now a scolding machine, always hovering, always correcting, always caring.

"Welcome, Sansa," Illyrio's voice rang out again as he introduced the newest actor to the stage," I would like to introduce you to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys Targaryen," he announced, voice bursting with pride, or something more, something that Sandor could not pinpoint. He was certain the magister was using the girl queen to get something, but he could not get a hint of the man's ulterior motive. Perhaps, but unlikely, Illyrio was truly an honest supporter of the Targaryen cause. Perhaps his only goal was to seat the rightful heir on her throne, to right the wrongs Robert had written into Westeros' history.

He told himself to stop searching for the best in people and watched as his beautiful wife charmed the queen as she did everyone, swiftly and surely.

* * *

 

 

 

**Arya**

 

She stood outside the heavy wooden door an hour before dawn, feet light and breath bated.

"...the boy..." It was a woman's voice, soft, exotic, Lysene.

"...water...dead..." Then there was Illyrio's deep voice, slick and oily, too slippery to trust.

She could her the subtle patter of the servants' feet hurrying to prepare for another day, preparing an exquisite meal for the residents, dusting the main room, tending to the lavish gardens. Inside the room, Larra and Illyrio plotted.

"With him dead we cannot-" the Lyseni stopped suddenly, and before Arya could respond to the tingle of warning running up her spine the door was swinging open and she was swiped away. She was in her good-brother's arms, a few feet from the gaping doorway, nestled in the cover of the velvety darkness the unlit hallway provided. Sandor covered her mouth with a big paw as she struggled to contain the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

"There is no one there, darling," came Larra's coo from the heavily-scented room, roses and jasmine permeating the hallway air, but Illyrio remained at the door, beady eyes glimpsing into the inky black for open ears. "I am sure it was only a servant tending to their work," she added, and got a hum of agreement from him. Illyrio stood at the entrance for second longer, but then inched the door closed and rejoined the Lyseni beauty.

After what seemed like an hour, Sandor pinched Arya and then dragged her out of the hall quickly, taking long strides to purposefully tire the short girl, who had to move her legs twice as fast as he in order to keep up. By the time they reached her chambers she was breathless, confused, and ready to find out more.

"What the hells were you thinking?" Sandor asked roughly as he pushed the heavy door open with too much force, making her fear for the safety of its hinges. She smiled and leaned against the frame, legs and arms crossed nonchalantly.

"They're plotting something," Arya revealed. Unfittingly, Sandor snorted in laughter, making her bold brows furrow. "What?" she demanded of the warrior, who still looked mightily amused at her revelation.

"No shit they're plotting something, little wolf," he explained, tenderness creeping in near the end. Her smile widened knowing that he couldn't stay mad at her for long. "The rich and the hingborn are always plotting," he went on, grey eyes roving over her head," for more land, more gold, more power."

"Well," Arya said as she scraped at a crooked tile with the toe of her worn boot," it didn't sound like their plans were going very well." Sandor looked surprised at the extra information. "I think someone they were using died," she told him.

"Ah, a pawn dropping dead is never good for the players of the game," he said, voice gentle as the first snowfall. She thought of Winterfell then, of home. Home where there was loyal guards, adoring smallfolk, a controlling mother, and a brother who she couldn't even recognize anymore.

"What?" she asked when she finally returned to the present. She didn't know what Sandor was talking about, did not understand what a game had to do with the politics of the world.

"Nothing," he shook his head, clearing it of whatever memories crowded it. She shrugged. It was not important, not like Illyrio's plans and the Dragon Queen's pending conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. As she slinked into her opulent chambers she planned out her next spying session.

* * *

 

 

 

  **Robb**

 

His mother burst into his chambers just as the clamor from the North Gate arose, as he had expected.

Catelyn stood there, face flushed and chest expanding and contracting rapidly, staring at her firstborn with betrayal flashing in her eyes. Robb knew she would act irrationally. She always did when it came to his brother.

"What have you done?" she moaned, clutched onto a chair near her, the flame in the hearth flickering with abandon behind her woeful form. He continued to write on the parchment before him, began to sign his royal signature when her hand slapped the quill from his gloved hands. He burst up from his seat then, anger rolling off of him, thick and palpable.

"I did what had to be done, mother." He retrieved the quill, only to find the parchment in her fingers. "What would you have me do?" he asked, voice dangerously low. She crumpled the thick sheet in her fist and threw it in the hungry flames. It was devoured within seconds.

"Anything else," she sobbed," there is still hope, Robb! There's still the girls! You can find another queen," she moved forward, gathered his woolen doublet in her searching fingers. "Please don't do this," she whispered, raw, desperate. He thought of his unborn babe, still and lifeless in Roslin's frail arms. He pulled away from her and threw a tired hand over his tired eyes. Robb didn't know how much more he could take. He needed security, to know that a Stark would be in Winterfell always, would finally avenge his father's wrongful death at the hands of the mad bastard on the throne.

"It has to be him, mother," he let himself fall back into the chair, turned towards the chamber where his wife had resided the last moons of her life, sad, alone, scared. He wished he has enquired more about her, visited her, listened to what she had in her pretty head. He turned back to the aging beauty befote him. _It's too late now_.

"You can sire an heir quickly, my son," she sank onto the stones underfoot, kneeled before him," we can find you a northern bride, a Mormont girl. They're fertile and stro-"

"Mother!" she flinched at the edge of his voice, and he felt guilty trickle into his mind. "It has to be Jon." He took her scarred hands into his, looked into eyes that were his own. "I am under threat every single moment. An heir takes time, Jon will not. If something were to happen to me, I would not want Winterfell to fall into the wrong hands. There must always be a Stark, mother, and Jon is a Stark through and through."

She remained motionless, Tully blue eyes glued to the space right between his, pale hands frozen in the confinement of his own. Therefore, it was surprising when she shot up from the ground, face stony, eyes hard, in an instant.

"Very well," she ground out to her king, her son, her last child, and turned on her heel, flying out of the room as if it were aflame. Robb let his whole frame sag under the pressure and closed his eyes to the dark room. Then, he picked up the quill, dipped it in the well of smooth ink, and began anew.

Outside the double walls of Winterfell, the party destined for Castle Black rode at breakneck speed to fetch his new heir.


	20. Sansa/Jon/Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens :0

 

 

 

 

**Sansa**

 

 

Daenerys sat before her, lilac eyes molten, silver hair tumbling down her slender shoulders, silk bedrobe slightly open at her bosom. She plucked a ripe berry from the bowl on the polished table, brought it her lips, and tore at its skin with her teeth. Teeth that had once chewed on a stallion's heart, had smiled fondly at a fierce Khal.

In the week that Sansa had known the girl of eight-and-ten, she learned that her new queen was strong, stubborn, and fickle. She had tact and tenderness, but she was also one to be ruled by her heart, not her mind. In short, Sansa was not sure if the girl, only older than her by two years, was suited for the position she sought.

She said nothing though, only smiled and nodded, played the part she born to play. Because although Daenerys Targaryen was not cruel, or mad, or devious, she was still a Targaryen, and so Sansa knew that she could not truly trust her. She remained guarded in all. She put up her wall, a task so familiar to her from her dreadful days in King's Landing, when she spoke of her family, of her grudges against the Usurper, of her plans for the future.

"Have you written to your brother, my lady?" the queen asked around another red berry. Sansa watched the juice stain her pale skin and then reached for one herself, the cravings winning out. She chewed on the fleshy orb and then turned back to Daenerys.

"I have not, Your Grace," she admitted, rubbing her bulging belly. She did not miss how the young queen's eyes darted to the child she carried, could not ignore the unveiled envy and subtle contempt in them. She felt the skin at the nape of her neck prickle in recognizable fear. It was coming home, taking residence in her mind. Fear for her person was another cruel familiarity. She knew exactly what it was to fear a monarch and what they could do to something so personal, something that she was supposed to have a say in.

"Oh," the young woman said once she had regained her composure and finally turned her eyes from the expectant mother," see that you do so soon," she leaned back in her cushioned chair, feigning comfort. But Sansa knew that she was aware of the effect she had on her. "I want to hear what he has to say over a potential alliance," she drawled out as she grabbed a berry with her slender fingers. She did not put it in her mouth though, only held it, looked at its pocked skin.

"I will do it as soon as you take your leave, Your Grace," Sansa humored the queen, voice soft and plying. It was hard to hide her revulsion, her dismay. She wanted so badly to be alone. _No_. Charcoal curls and grey eyes filled her head. _I want Sandor_. Thinking of her husband made her ache. She wanted him close, she wanted them to be one, to lose all of her breath in him.

She swam out of the fervent desire, neck flushed, skin ablaze, and Daenerys' eyes were on her again. Sansa reached for her goblet of watered wine as the queen opened her mouth to speak.

"You're very beautiful," she said bluntly. "You may be the loveliest woman I've ever seen," she added after a mouthful of sweet wine. Sansa's cheeks bloomed like roses from the Reach, bright and glorious, on reflex. In truth, she was so accustomed to the compliments that the blushing was no longer natural. It was a learned habit. Someone called her a beauty and her cheeks colored like summer blossoms, and she would be praised further. It had been her way of life her whole life. "I was surprised to learn you are married to Clegane." Sansa's warm smile froze over in chilly anger. She should've known that the queen had been leading up to the looks of her husband.

"Yes, he is quite a sight," Sansa mused," but I love him more than anything. He is my world," she sighed, and then looked down at their child, still inside of her," they, I mean." The jealousy was back in Daenerys' lavender eyes, great and green. Sansa looked away then, the discomfort tangible.

"I know what you mean," she said, but her strong voice cracked near the end, making Sansa turn back to the woman. For a second, there was unshed tears in her gemstone eyes, pooling in their depths, threatening to spill down her cheeks. And for once in her life, Sansa did not have something to say.

"Your Grace, wh-what is the matter?" she asked, reached across the dark wood to the queen's porcelain hands. Daenerys stayed still for a moment, but then she was up, robe flaring around her as she tried to get away.

"I must retire, Lady Clegane," she attempted to smooth over. She moved to the door of Sansa's chambers in a few quick strides, muttered a "good night", and was gone. She was too confused to be relieved. Why did she behave so oddly? She wondered what was wrong with the queen as she gathered the supplies to write her brother a letter, something she thought she would not do again. Her cerulean eyes closed as she remembered the last letter she has written him. The one announcing her betrayal and escape. Doubt festered in her mind as she moved a practiced hand to form words.

She thought about the expectant Queen Roslin as she wrote about the Dragon Queen and a possible alliance between the two powers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Jon**

 

 

He was numb.

He, Jon Snow, a bastard of the late Warden of The North, brother to the King in the North, was a bastard no longer. He had betrayed his blasted, horrible, traitorous brothers for his brother, traded duty for family, and abandoned the Watch. And now, he stood before the North Gate bearing the name that had been unreachable his whole life, had always been a forbidden desire.

Jon Stark.

He would do right by Robb. He would fight with his all, would work until he could work no longer, until the Gods forgave him for breaking his oath for the love of his brother, his king.

"M'lord." It was a guard, brow bowed, eyes weary. Jon looked down at the man from his shaggy mount, a northern creature suited for the harsh winds of winter. The title felt strange, especially knowing that it actually held some weight. That it was no longer a courtesy designed to lift Eddard Stark's bastard's morale. "I will be escorting you to the king's chambers," he went on and waited patiently for the newly-minted Stark to dismount and follow.

He knew where the Lord's chambers were, of course. His whole life had flowed within the granite walls of Winterfell. All of his memories were embedded in the castle. But he remained silent as the burly guard showed him to the set of rooms that he had been to before. The guard knocked on the wooden door that Jon had stood outside of when summoned to answer for his childhood mischief, and then left him to greet the King in the North.

"Brother," Robb exhaled when the heavy door was open, a watery smile on his face," I am so glad you are well." He threw all formality out the window as he pulled the lean boy into his arms, almost suffocating him with his auburn curls, their textured length brushing the tips of his shoulders. Jon, heart racing and blood singing, smiled against Robb's shoulder, marveled at how he had grown, how his shoulders had broadened. He was no longer the boy saying goodbye under a dusting of snow. He was a man grown, a ruler, and a melancholy one at that.

"It's good to be back," Jon exhaled," though I wish it had been under merry circumstances," he added, mindful of his brother's loss, an heir and a queen, gone in one cruel swipe of the Gods' will. Jon had heard, through mouthy guards, that the stillborn child, born without a breath in its small, underdeveloped body, was a male. It hurt all the more. Although Jon had always longed to belong, he was not twisted enough to relish in the loss of a babe. Robb released his brother and pulled him into his blistering chambers.

"Mother was not enthusiastic about this," Robb said as he sank down into his chair. It did not surprise Jon, who had always been on the receiving end of Catelyn Stark's scorn and resentment. He, who had no say in his means of birth, was the bane of her existence. No matter what he had done right, the Stark matriarch only ever sneered at him. Jon fumbled with his gloves as his brother served them spiced wine in the unremarkable chalices sitting atop the wooden table.

"I wouldn't have expected any less," he smiled, attempted making light of the situation. He recognized the look of relief in Robb's cerulean eyes as he took his drink from his warm hands. Robb downed the spirit, and then turned to the crackling fire in the hearth.

"How was the Wall, brother?" he asked, eyes still glued to the glowing wood, the tendrils of smoke curling around the stones overhead. Jon put down his chalice and raised a hand, burned and scarred from fending off a wight long ago, to his raven curls.

"They tried to kill me," he admitted in one painful breath.

"What?" Robb almost yelped as his head snapped back to the somber man, eyes wide. The Night's Watch was supposed to be an honorable institution, where brothers worked together to protect the Seven Kingdoms. They weren't supposed to betray each other, stab each other in the back.

"I obeyed commands and infiltrated the wildling army," Jon breathed," and my brothers turned against me. I was an outcast for some time, but I was safe. Then, as we were fending off a small attack, they tried to stab me when my back was turned, because they thought me a turncloak. Lord Commander Marsh was at his wits end when your letter and your men came," he finished, finally taking off his left glove.

"I-"

There was a knock, and then the maester rushed in, robes billowing around his lean frame as he stalked over to Robb.

"Forgive me, my lord," he mumbled, clutched onto the scroll in his hands tighter. Jon did not recognize the wax seal on the parchment, so he looked to his brother.

"It is fine, maester," he nodded and held out a hand for the scroll. The maester hesitated.

"My lord...it came from White Harbor, where it was received from one Magister Illyrio Mopatis," he said, eyebrows drawn over his thin face. Robb wasted no time. He tore the message from his hands and forced it open in a matter of heartbeats. Jon watched his face flush, his eyes glint, and then the message was in his hands too.

"You have my leave to go," Robb informed the maester, who reluctantly slinked out of the room. "It's from Sansa," he divulged afterwards," and Daenerys Targaryen." Targaryen. The only Targaryen Jon had ever known was Castle Black's ancient maester, frozen and encapsulated in the Night's Watch. He hoped he still had years left.

Jon opened the scroll, relished the texture of the creamy parchment beneath his frigid fingertips.

 

 

>  Robb,
> 
> I know that we left under circumstances that were not ideal, but I have something to ask of you. My sister, my husband, my unborn child, and I are currently under the protection of Daenerys Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the Mother of Dragons. My Queen, the rightful queen, wishes to broker an alliance with our house and you, the King in the North. Please respond, brother. Leave the past in the past for the love you bear Arya and I.
> 
> Awaiting your response,
> 
> Lady Sansa Clegane'

"Clegane?" Jon questioned, eyebrows raised. He knew his sisters had fled the North, had even heard that Sandor Clegane had helped them break out of their brother's safety, but he had not known that Sansa, pretty and prude and so very ladylike, was married and with child, much less to someone as scarred and crude as the Hound.

"Oh Gods," Robb groaned as he ran a hand through his mane," she's really gone," he lamented, further confusing Jon. He still could not wrap his head around the news.

"She married the Hound?" Jon could not hide the incredulity dripping from his voice, and did not miss Robb's slight cringe. His brother covered his pallid face with his hands and answered him in a muffled tone.

"We knew she had married him, but..." he trailed off as he lowered his hands," we didn't know she was pregnant. She's too far gone, there's no hope of her ever marrying into a northern House, not with that bastard's babe in her belly," he raged, eyes burning as he went on, blue hot with the fury of being defied, deceived, deserted. Jon cleared his throat.

"I didn't expect that from her," he said, placed the parchment on the table," but Arya... we all knew she would never be bound to someone. She is a wolf, Robb," he sighed. Robb sat straighter in his seat.

"It is her duty," he sneered. "We've all done our duty. I've done my duty, I'm doing my duty. It's not fair that the girls get to forego theirs." Jon rolled his eyes at his brother, who had his chest puffed up with indignation and pride.

"I don't think you'd like being inferior to a man, having almost no rights, till death do you part," Jon jabbed, watched Robb's ego deflate from the sharp prick of truth. Jon sympathised with the girls, the strong, fierce girls who would have hated being oppressed their whole lives when they deserved nothing less than everything.

"Now," he said after moments of silence," I think you have a letter to write." He gathered writing materials for his fuming brother, his rebellious sisters taking residence in every corner of his mind all the while.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
**Arya**

 

 

She dropped down onto her seat just as a thin slave girl, labelled a servant when in reality she was bound to the powerful Magister, set a steaming platter of honeyed lamb drizzled with butter onto the intricately carved dinner table, and then went to stand behind Illyrio Mopatis.

"Where were you?" Sansa asked near Arya's ear, nudging her thin calf with the toe of her pointed slipper, all satin and sapphires. It had been a gift from Illyrio, alongside the stones that clung to the column of her neck and the silk dress encasing her form. Bedecked in Illyrio's wealth, Sansa looked like a princess. Arya looked at her fiery hair, braided in the northern style, and remembered that Sansa always managed to look like royalty. Her noble blood shone through her creamy skin, rich waves of copper hair, and sparkling eyes. 

"I was training," she said, eyes on her sister's. Sansa's eyebrows drew together, her cheeks flooding pink as she pinched Arya's slender arm. "Sorry," she hissed at her crazed sister," I'm sorry for lying." Sansa released her arm, but turned her pretty nose up and away. Arya rolled her eyes, but gave in anyway. "I saw the beasts eat their meal," she whispered to her older sister, eyes weary of Daenerys.

She sat at one end of the table, speaking to Illyrio while her dragons, her children, stirred in bondage. Illyrio had persuaded the queen to chain her three dragons, who were not yet as humongous as Arya believed, in the cellars. The queen, remembering how they had terrorized the people of Mereen, agreed and led them to their restraints herself.

"What are you two whispering about?" Sandor complained from next to Sansa, grumbling as he cut into his hunk of meat, soft, warm, and overflowing with juices. Sansa pecked his burned cheek, but said nothing more. Illyrio spoke into the slave girl's ear and watched her hurry out of the room before turning to the women and men supping.

"Attention," Illyrio called from the seat of honor at the head of the table. Arya thought of her father, how he had commanded attention with a glance. All of the guests turned to their fat host, who's forehead was slick with perspiration. Along with Daenerys, Selmy, a young scribe, and Unsullied officers feasted at the table, and had done so since their arrival just over a moon ago. "The beautiful queen has just informed me of her plan to leave my grand home in favor of the frigid Westeros." Glancing around the table, Arya noticed no one was surprised. Daenerys, though, did not look pleased, her mouth a straight line and her light eyebrows almost drawn.

"Yes," Sansa gave in to the silence," my brother wrote back to us this morning. He has promised Queen Daenerys his loyalty and his men." Arya knew the northerners wouldn't like it. The boy who had murdered her father was dead, his mother subdued. They had no business with the South, but everyone remembered what had happened when Aegon set his mind to having Westeros. On the other side of the table the slave girl, since returned with a bottle of wine, served Daenerys in a chalice crammed with jewels on its exterior.

"So she has told me," Illyrio smiled," but I remain cross with her for leaving me," he teased, although the Dragon Queen did not smile back. Daenerys, pale and quiet, had not touched her food. Arya felt her stomach clench. _Something isn't right._

"Your Grace," Sansa spoke up from beside her," are you feeling ill?" Daenerys fixed her face, sat up straighter, and reached for the chalice next to her plate of food, a steaming pile of decadent temptation. She didn't bring it to her lips.

"My dear," Illyrio frowned," you haven't so much as taken a bite of your meal." Arya saw Sandor put his fork down from the corner of her eye, and Selmy reached beneath the table. Daenerys let her fingers release the stem of the chalice.

"Magister," she said in her normal soft tone," would you care to taste it?" No one said a thing. The servants stiffened, grasping her implication and their possible demise. Illyrio held his tongue for a moment, but then bursted out in laughter, holding his jiggling stomach as his face morphed into the same red hue of the sauce on Arya's dish.

"Oh, don't be foolish, darling," he said as he dabbed at a tear trailing down his cheek. Somehow Arya knew his tears, and the laughter that caused them, were not real. "Everything is safe." The queen did not balk, did not shrivel under his feral smile.

"Then why would you not give it a try?" she asked as she pushed her cup towards the man, a coy smile on her lips. Arya held onto her chair. Sansa, next to her, had gone moon pale.

"It is your food, my queen," he pushed it back with a chunky finger," it would not be seemly of me to eat from your plate or drink from your cup." Daenerys dropped her smile and held out her cup to the slave girl who had served it to her only minutes before.

"Taste it," she commanded the girl, and when the slender youth hesitated, turned her big, brown eyes to Illyrio, the queen let the chalice fall from her long fingers and onto the polished stone floor.

It was over in a heartbeat.

Selmy, aging but agile, was at Illyrio's throat before Arya could blink. Sansa was out of her seat, shrieking, before Arya could register Sandor fending off the guards who rushed in as Selmy unsheathed a dagger. Everything stilled as he placed it against the pillowy skin of Illyrio's neck.

"Your Grace," he squeaked," why have you betrayed me so?" The last guard gurgled on his blood, Sandor unsheathed his sword from his chest, and Daenerys rose from her seat.

"Because, my dear Magister, my dragons are my children," she neared him," and I cannot let you steal them from me. You have them chained, you tried to poison me. You must pay," She patted his shoulder and looked into his eyes as Barristan Selmy slit his throat, watched him choke on his own blood. Arya was frozen in her seat. Sansa was against the wall, ghostly white and stricken.

"We leave tonight," Daenerys said to no one in particular, then left the room with her knight, her scribe, and her officers in toe, leaving the two Stark girls to wallow in shock. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it's nice (: 
> 
> Feel free to point out any errors. I tend to overlook a few. Also, any awkward sentences that need to be made clearer. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	21. Sansa/Robb/Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Return and Revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! I managed to survive finals, so I got to finishing this chapter. It's fairly long, at least to my standards, at 4,263 words, and there's some serious stuff going down near the middle. Thank you for holding out for me :) Happy holidays to you and yours <3!

 

 

Sansa

 

 

 

          The giant, scaly shadow soared up in an elegant arc, and then plummeted downward sharply, sending pinpricks of fear down the length of her spine.   
  
"Don't worry," Arya shrugged from beside her," he knows what he's doing." Drogon, lithe and inky, narrowly avoided hitting the ship and instead went up for another dizzying spiral in the evening sky, streaks of racing black against the blur of dim blues and blushing pinks.   
  
"Forgive me if I find it hard to relax when there's a dragon threatening to crush the ship!" Sansa nearly shrieked, sending Arya into a fit of giggles and gathering the attention of the few Unsullied strolling about the deck. The Queen's soldiers were constantly watching, always listening. She could tell that their behavior was an extension of Daenerys' suspicion of the Stark clan, a trait not unusual in the Targaryens, who had a knack for paranoia and distrust.   
  
"You're overreacting, Sansa," she sighed and leaned her head against her tall sister's shoulder. "The Queen trains them well. If not, she wouldn't have so many supporters, now would she? They'd be inside of the dragons." There was a naughty smile on her lips and although Sansa tried to resist, one spread across her face as well.   
  
"Well aren't you two a sight for sore eyes," came a deep rasp, and then Sandor's arms were around the both of them, big, heavy, warm. Sansa tucked herself further under his arm, sighing her content as he kissed the top of her head softly, carefully.   
  
"Sore eyes?" Arya poked at his ribs. "You saw us not an hour past, you goose." Sandor grumbled as he shied away from her probing fingers and retreated to Sansa's other side, where he was safe from Arya's ministrations. He looked down at Sansa, a frown forming between his eyebrows.   
  
"Are you feeling well, little bird?" he  murmured, eyes trained on her bulging belly, almost ready to burst with life and love. She only hoped that the child within her would wait for them to arrive at White Harbor to finally leave its cocoon. As it was, they had been at sea a drudging two weeks filled with soft skies, churning water, and strangers watching. She stretched her fingers against the bump that strained the fabric of her dress taut around her waist.   
  
"Just fine," she smiled, and hoped that she did not appear as green as she felt. The moving and rocking of the ship that she had so loved on their first embarkment on the turbulent sea had now turned into a sour grievance of the pregnant woman. Sansa had spent the first few days on board in her noticeably upgraded cabin, retching and heaving everything and anything in her compressed stomach, pushed to its limit by the babe inside her.   
  
"How many times have I told you you're a terrible liar?" Sandor shook his head at her, but she only bared her perfect teeth at him in a pretty smile, the kind he could not resist.   
  
"I've lost count," she jabbed, ignored the snort from Arya, who was definitely a better liar than she, a better actress by far. Arya folded her torso over the wooden rail, a thin thing that did not appear sturdy enough to support the weight of her slender sister, and let her hair, a chestnut mane that had gone untamed, dangle over the frothy waves that pushed and cradled the belly of their cog.   
  
"Arya," she chided the younger girl weakly, not really feeling vigorous enough to argue with the little spitfire. Arya only swayed in time with the ship, gentle and calm.   
  
"How long will we be on this blasted ship?" Sandor groaned from beside her, huge, powerful forearms resting on the rail that held her sister only a few feet away. Sansa wondered what lured them to the wooden structure.   
  
"Quite a while," she told him, sliding a hand along his broad back, relishing in the feeling of the muscles beneath the tawny skin contracting at her touch. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a few of the sellswords that had joined the Queen guffaw at their open display of affection, much to her irritation. The slimy men had struggled to understand how Sandor, fierce and scarred, had ended up with a proper lady like her, and had resorted to mocking them when they thought their backs turned. "Don't mind them," she whispered into her annoyed husband's stump of an ear.   
  
"I could run them through with my sword," he whispered, eliciting a laugh and half-hearted slap on the back from Sansa. His mismatched lips curled in a smile, making her heart beat faster than before. She loved him so much, more than anything she had ever loved before. Her hand traveled up the ridge of his spine and snaked its way up into his coal hair, tumbled by the salty wind and a day of training with other men.  For a moment she envisioned her child, and wondered whether it would sprout her fiery strands or his raven locks.   
  
"Lady Sansa." It was Ser Barristan, only few feet away, watching her stroke her husband's back affectionately while thinking about their child. Sansa had no clue how long the knight had been standing and observing the intimate moment between herself and her beloved family. Arya was up now, watching the aging man through slitted eyes.   
  
"Ser Barristan, a pleasure," she smiled, because she was a lady and a lady always remembered her courtesies. Sandor watched with weary eyes, making Sansa wonder if anything had happened between the two. It seemed he was always cowed when the knight came near, subdued somehow.   
  
"My Queen wishes to speak to you, if you please," he returned a small smile and held out his arm in an invitation, only it was not an invitation but an order. She was being summoned and there was no way to refuse. Sansa gave Sandor one last pat and took Ser Barristan's arm with slight hesitance. "Do not worry. She only wishes to ask you about the North and your brother," he reassured her after they were halfway to the Queen's cabin.   
  
"Lady Sansa!" Daenerys called out at her entrance, looking at her through the mirror she was sitting before. A Dothraki youth was braiding her strands of silver intricately and another was lighting scented candles throughout the space of the Queen's bedchamber. "Thank you, Ser Barristan, you may be excused." The ex-Kingsguard member bowed and exited the room as Sansa situated herself on one the low, cushioned seating at the center of the room. The Dothraki who had been lighting candles dropped her chore quickly to pour Sansa watered wine, as she knew she preferred.   
  
"How can I be of assistance, Your Grace?" Sansa enquired after a sip of her cup. The young girl moved behind Sansa and placed her hands on her curving shoulders. "Oh! You don't have to do that, dear," Sansa squeezed her hands, and the girl looked to her Queen with uncertainty.   
  
"You are delicate, Lady Sansa. Please allow her to help you relax," Daenerys persuaded, making sense to Sansa's tired mind. She was ready to get off the ship, to sleep in an actual bed on land that did not shift beneath her feet in air that was not salty or stale.   
  
"Thank you, Your Grace," she sighed as the girl continued her attentions, pushing into the flesh of her shoulders through her thick dress. Even though the sea wind had gotten chilly, the scantily clad Dothraki refused to change their ways and remained half dressed even in temperatures that had Sansa shivering through layers. She wondered how they would respond to the immensely colder North, if they would finally give in to furs and wool.   
  
"Your brother, the King, is he ambitious?" The Queen treaded lightly, using the right words to phrase her true question. Would he let her rule? She knew the truth of course, that Robb had only waged war against the South for justice against their father's murder, for vengeance.   
  
"Your Grace, Robb is not hungry for power. He, and everyone else in Westeros I assume, only wants peace, and if you are able to bring that to him then I am confident he will not interfere with your rule." Daenerys smiled and her little maid tied off the end of the complex braid she had woven down her back. Sansa watched the Queen settle down across from her and serve herself some of the strong wine she loved to sip on during their meetings.   
  
"And he remains unmarried?" she asked, unknowingly making Sansa want to puke on the satiny cushions surrounding her. In the letter she had received from Robb, he had delivered the news of Roslin's passing and Jon's return to Winterfell. She had been shocked. A Queen and a male heir, gone within a night of impatient waiting and subdued excitement. She had vowed to pray for them as soon as she set foot in a Godswood the second she read the somber words scratched into the parchment.   
  
"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa consented, leaving out the sore detail of his history," my brother does not have a wife." Sansa thought that if Daenerys had designs on cementing an alliance with marriage, the North was far from agreeing with any such situation. She remembered how grudgingly they had accepted Roslin's position by Robb's side, or, more accurately, Robb's shadow. What the North slavered for after having endured two southron brides in a row was a willful, hardy maid from its own icy domain.   
  
"Would they accept me, Sansa?" Daenerys looked at her with her wide lavender eyes, glimmering, pastel fountains overtaking the whole of her porcelain, heart shaped face. Sansa knew that although the northern lords that made up Robb's council would bow down to her fiery reign, they would not welcome her into the largest of the kingdoms with open arms and warm welcome to completely overtake Westeros. 

"They will listen, Your Grace," Sansa nearly sighed," for all they want is their peace and quiet, and enough supplies to last then through the winter." She knew what they wanted only because it was what her own northern heart yearned for more and more each passing, war-stricken day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Robb 

 

 

 

  
  
          The short, wiry man and his escort arrived an hour past midnight, alongside a new rush of snow and icy wind that would have appeared picturesque to all guests lodging in Winterfell had they not all known the mortal danger it posed for all living North of the neck, where the winds were harsher and the earth was unforgiving.   
  
"Your Grace," he bowed down to Robb in the Great Hall, before most of the castle folk and his own lady mother, who sat seething silently only a few feet away from him, eyes drawn and lips pressed together firmly. She had been upset even before Jon's uproarious arrival at Winterfell. Robb gave the man a tired smile and motioned for him to rise.   
  
"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Reed," he announced. "You are the last to arrive." His bannermen had been streaming in for weeks now. They had straggled to all gates of his seat after he had declared his pending alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and sent out as many ravens as possible, hoping they weren't dark words to his men's eyes. He had summoned them all to Winterfell to seek their approval and their support in the matter, and worried over the question of their loyalty through the uncertain, delicate situation of another Targaryen on the throne, one cut from the same cloth as the Mad King that tortured and murdered Winterfell's Lord and heir not two decades past. Robb didn't even know the woman, much less did he trust her with the North, with his people. But Sansa does, it seems.   
  
Perhaps if his sister had still been a silly little girl, he would have accepted his mother's theory that she had been forced to write the letter against her will, like she had in King's Landing. Robb still remembered that letter, the pretty little lies she had written to him, most likely under the direct orders of Joffrey or Cersei.   
  
"Thank you for bringing me into your home, Your Grace," Lord Reed smiled, a nice sight, and caught the image of his sour mother beside him. "Lady Stark, a pleasure." His mother, ever the lady, nodded back dutifully, even added a kind courtesy. He thanked her silently and signaled for the servants to accommodate Reed's escort, and then waved him closer with warmth and his usual charisma donned.   
  
"You were a great friend to my lord father," Robb reminded the man, and his murky, green eyes wilted, turned soft and sad. "For that, I ask you to break your fast atop the dais on the morrow. My brother Jon and I look forward to hearing the exploits of his youth." Reed smiled at the young King and accepted his offer, but his eyes darted uneasily toward Lady Catelyn when she rose stiffly at the mention of Jon.   
  
"If I may be excused, Your Grace," she bit out at her firstborn, and then strode out of the Great Hall and toward the Keep. Robb shook his head and turned back to Reed, who looked embarrassed to have witnessed the small spectacle.   
  
"Your Grace," he began, but paused to turn and look at the guards that remained in the giant hall with them," may I have a private word? With Lord Jon and yourself?" Robb was confused. Why would Lord Reed want to speak to Jon, whom he had never met, whom he had no business with whatsoever? On top of that, why was it necessary that he speak to both Starks? Robb thought on it, but in the end his curiosity won out.   
  
"Very well," he consented, watched as the older man's face melted in relief," we shall speak tomorrow after the council meeting." Reed nodded and thanked him, and after a wish of restful sleep, he was following in his lady mother's footsteps, a tall guard guiding him.   
  
Robb allowed himself to slump down in the Lord's seat after everyone had gone and he was but the last in the dark, long hall swathed in shadows. Every once in awhile, when he sat alone as he did now, he closed his eyes and tried to remember that night when his father had smiled at the King and his bastard heirs, and Sansa had curtsied and smiled prettily at Joffrey, and Arya had sneaked food to Jon under Catelyn's nose. When he could hear the music, muffled and distant, and the merriment, hollow and vacant, he knew it was time to retire to his chambers.   
  
He didn't know how she had gotten in, but when he opened the door to his bedchamber, she was there, sharpening her axe before the light of the dwindling hearth. He was surprised to see her without her mace. After he got rid of her he would have to summon a maid to stoke the weak flames.

  
"What are you doing here?" She looked up at his voice, but after a second looked down again, rubbing against the edge of the blade harder than before. Robb felt the familiar pull in his lower extremities at this, at her extraordinary nature, at her brazen, bold beauty. There was no one like a Mormont woman, he knew. They were women all right, but they were strong and fierce and the blood of the North without a doubt.   
  
"Thought you needed company, Your Grace," she grunted after a second, but her silky voice only served to intoxicate him further. She was wearing mail and leather that night, looking like the warrior woman she was. He could see her in his mind's eye, fighting alongside him just as well as any man, quick and angry and brutal and, once every while, reckless.   
  
"You thought wrong, Lady Mormont," he scolded, ignoring the tightness in his breeches. He could not dishonor her again. Not after all that had happened. His inability to control his desires was his greatest shame, something that he knew his late lord father would have disapproved of, even if he himself had fallen prey once as well. She looked at him and smiled widely, smugly when she saw the response her simple presence elicited in him.   
  
"Doesn't look like it, Your Grace," she averted her eyes and stood, attaching her axe onto the belt hanging around her slim hips," it looks like you needed my company more than I thought." Robb felt his face coloring, but remained still by the door. Dacey took his lack of movement as invitation to come nearer and she didn't stop until their noses were nearly touching.   
  
"We can't," he ground out, when the longing became too much to bear upon his weary shoulders. "Things are not the same as before. I have a responsibility." At that she laughed so hard he feared the granite walls would quake.   
  
"Responsibility," and snorted," includes taking a wife and giving the North an heir, Robb." Her hands were on the laces of his jerkin before he could move away. "Not a weak little southron bride again, Your Grace," she whispered into the flesh she revealed as she unlaced the garment. 

"Dacey..." Her eyes focused on his as she pushed the fur-lined leather off of his broad shoulders, and bent forward to place a butterfly kiss on the ridge of his clavicle. He shivered when her tongue darted out to taste his flesh quickly, too quickly for his liking. "Go back to your mother, my Lady," he said firmly, pushing her away as gently as a starved man could. She latched onto his forearms with a strength that fanned the flames of his desire, and pulled him flush against her just as easily as he could have. 

"Make me your Queen," she whispered. For a split second Robb thought of Daenerys Targaryen, of her dragons and peace and rumored beauty. But she was nowhere near Winterfell, not yet even in Westeros, and Dacey was right in front of him, soft and warm and the object of Robb's affections since the night of his wedding when he was forced to wed quiet, meek little Roslin. She was everything he could ever want in a Queen. She was comely and sturdy and fierce and so very northern. She would bear him strong babes and bring his House and council pride and, perhaps, restore some happiness in his sad, sour mother. And she was right there, standing only a pace away and looking up at him with her sparkling amber eyes, breathing quickly and ready to be thrown onto his cold featherbed.   
  
The two lovers melted together in the depths of the night, unaware of the dark canine running through the clumping, deadly snow leagues and leagues away from Winterfell, searching for the castle it had abandoned with a panicked, dizzying haste as servants and intruders alike slept the night away.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Sandor 

 

 

  
Two moons had come and gone and still they remained on the stinking ship, much to Arya's melancholy.   
  
"Quit your moping," Sandor chided, shaking one of her thin shoulders, which drooped as she dragged her feet along the wooden planks supporting their weight. The Unsullied training near them followed their every move, and some, having been broken out of their unemotional state slightly by the Dragon Queen and her Dothraki, clucked their tongues at the informal comraderie that Arya and Sandor shared.   
  
"I want off," she whined, small hand on the pommel of her slim blade. Sandor felt a familiar yearning for his as well, but he had made the mistake of forgetting it in his cabin and did not want to risk waking his pregnant wife up and having her rip his head off on their last day in this seventh hell. The ship's captain had heartily announced their arrival would be swift and sure and they would all be on steady, dry land by the time the evening sky was out on display, and Sandor would have to have a talk with him if he and his family were still aboard after the said hour of disembarkment.   
  
As it was the sun was hanging low and heavy, ready to plunge down below the waves, and land had been spotted not an hour past. They would be back in Westeros soon, he knew. Arya, on the other hand, seemed to believe they were never getting off, even when the signs of arrival were glaringly obvious. She pounced on an empty bench along one of the walls of the captain's quarters and leaned her head back in an oddly vulnerable way, leaving Sandor with no choice but to sit and guard her.   
  
"Any moment now," Sandor rasped, elbows on knees as he watched his good-sister's Stark eyes look from this swollen to cloud to that one. He wondered if she had not gone insane after the time on board with no company other than Sansa and himself. The little wolf did not seek the Queen's company, and she did not want to associate herself with the wild Dothraki children, who were much more wild than her.   
  
"You said that an hour ago," she groaned, not untruthfully. He had in fact reassured their timely departure an hour ago, though he had used different words.   
  
"So you were paying me some bloody attention then," he smiled, feeling the odd pull of his skin that he knew must have looked horrendous when under the threat of his joy. And though before he refrained from smiling because he genuinely hated the word, and still did almost all of the time, and looked a horrible sight, he did not care what anyone thought anymore, not after he had stolen the maiden fair and gained the friendship of both her and her sister, who had once hated him with all of her little heart for following orders and running down an innocent butcher's boy.   
  
"Of course," she said, big eyes closed," I can't wait to get to White Harbor. I miss the ground so much that I promise you I'll kiss it as soon as we're off." The wind mussed up his hair and he lifted a thick arm to fix it while Arya sat straight up on the wooden bench, a makeshift thing full of splinters and some carelessly hammered nails.   
  
When they did leave the confines of the ship just as the evening sky darkened into a dark, starry night, Sansa grabbed onto Arya's arm with a vice like grip before she could scramble to the wet ground and press her lips to it in gratitude and love.   
  
"It's unsanitary!" the beautiful woman cried, but Arya only wrinkled her nose and bound ahead the front of the precession. Daenerys had thought it fit to send her Dothraki and Unsullied through the Seal Gate and decided that she, her officers, and the Starks would be safer going through the Castle Stair, a plan Sandor agreed with. It was wiser to elude her new subjects rather than risk the horrors of a riot, horrors that both Sandor and Sansa were unpleasantly familiar with.   
  
"Through here, m'lady," a small boy, not much older than Arya, told Sansa, guiding her with cheeks as red as her hair. "The Wolfswood," he announced when they entered the ancient grounds turned prison, a dark, gloomy place that did not fail to awe Sandor's lady wife. Her eyes were everywhere, until they reached a passage and the child warned them that they would need to watch their step and climb carefully. The damp passage was long and tedious, and when he saw the end, Sandor could not help but let out a sigh in relief. He knew that would come next would be difficult, but at least they were off of the ship and under the protection of one of the Starks' leal supporters.   
  
"Where is your Lord?" Daenerys asked the boy, sounding just as weary as he felt. The youth tugged on a big ear and scrambled ahead, leaving them to follow until they arrived at a large domed hall with fishes along the walls and the wooden plank flooring. All of the creatures of the sea were scattered throughout the hall, plastered onto every space imaginable, and at the end was sitting fat, old Lord Manderly. There was no fear in his eyes, Sandor noted, nor was there apprehension. In his face Sandor saw only a calm readiness, one that he felt obliged to admire, in a way.   
  
There was a pause, a stillness in the air that set his mind on edge. He recalled another meeting with a northerner in which his head was practically already on a block, his death an easily foreseen circumstance, even with his little bird's backing. The Queen stared at the Lord atop his lesser throne, watched his chins wobble with every labored breath with her hazy lavender eyes, and he stared back, scrutinizing this woman, this _Targaryen_ that they were expected to bow down to without question. Whatever the big man found in this new overlord, this new player in the game that all wanted so badly to play even with the risk of a flinching failure, was enough for him to nod his head ever so slightly and welcome her to his hearth and home before summoned a portly maid bearing bread and wine for the new guests. 


	22. Robb/Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen and King meet, family reunion (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the wait. School has been super tough recently and although I began to write this over three months ago, I just now got around to finishing it. It may be short, but I hope you guys enjoy it. 
> 
> If there's any errors, feel free to point them out. I'm pretty rusty so I'm already anticipating quite a few :p

 

                             Robb

 

 

 

  
            A stray flower smacking his torso drew his eyes to the crowd surging around them like the turbulent waves of the salty sea. The smallfolk of White Harbor were clustered along the wide, stone streets, watching and cheering and proclaiming their unflinching devotion for their beloved King in the North.   
  
"B-Robb, a Manderly man comes," Jon piped up from his other side, raven curls bouncing in time with his beast's trotting. When Robb looked ahead, he was greeted with the sight of fat, bald Ser Wendel Manderly. The heavy man smiled wide beneath his drooping mustache as he drew nearer to the Stark, and then fell into line behind him, alongside the his newly betrothed.  
  
"Lady Stark, Lady Mormont, Lord Jon," he nodded to each of the persons surrounding Robb, respect and loyalty thick on his tongue, and eyes, and overall demeanor. They nodded back, stiff and cool from travel, and Ser Wendel turned to the man everyone had come to look at with gawking expressions and wide, wide eyes filled with admiration and affection.   
  
"Your Grace, please follow me to the New Castle," Ser Wendel instructed, clutching the reins tight in his meaty fists as the streets grew steeper. Robb dug into the flank of his mount, speeding the journey to the Castle Stairs, and once they reached the bottom of the steep structure, he dismounted with a flourish and walked alongside a boisterous Ser Wendel, who fed the royal family pieces of noble gossip and news concerning the war.   
  
When they reached the top of the daunting stairs, they were herded into the New Castle, and directed straight into Merman's Court, where Lord Manderly sat atop his Lord's chair, surrounded by the sea and its creatures. The hall was littered with men and women, all dressed in fine furs and heavy silks alike, who looked at the party with uncertain, skittish eyes. Around the merry Lord Manderly stood a heavy-set man, arm in arm with his fleshy, pink wife, and behind the grotesque couple stood two slim young women who wore their awe on their sleeves. The first was taller, with a long, chestnut braid that draped across her shoulder, and the second maiden, to Robb's surprise, sported her own braid of sea green hair. He knew then who they were and recognized that the man before them was the heir of House Manderly.   
  
"Your Grace," Lord Wyman greeted him in a thin voice, a voice just loud enough to be heard but not obeyed. Robb reciprocated his own warm acknowledgement and when a serving woman bustled in carrying bread and wine, he accepted greedily.   
  
"Where are they?" Catelyn Stark's eyes bounced from painted sea creature to painted sea creature, traveled around the wooden floors and walls. Everyone, previously placid and content to have received the royal party safely, turned to Lady Catelyn. She stood beside Dacey, who looked just as nervous as the others, and Robb noticed immediately that her resolve was unwavering and that there would be no way to put her off of seeking out the daughters she had not laid eyes on in so long.   
  
"Not here," the younger Manderly girl spoke up, earning a small smack from her older sister and an indignant squeak from her round mother, who became as pink in the face as the dress encasing her body. "Forgive me, Your Grace," she added, but Robb only waved the inoffensive response away and looked toward Lord Manderly, who shifted in his seat awkwardly in an attempt to regain his attention.   
  
"My lady, I do not think it best-"   
  
"Where are the girls, my lord?" She repeated, voice rising in earnest and pitch. Lord Wyman sat upon his Lord's seat, a giant blob of pale, weary flesh, a nervous smile beneath the mustache that adorned his upper lip. Robb wondered whether the girls were even truly within the city. Mayhaps the lord was anxious because in reality the girls had never made it. He could not bear to think that they were still in Essos, countless leagues away, and not here to see the mother and brother whose confidence they had betrayed.   
  
"Your girls have gone down to the Wolf's Den," he admitted after a breath and Catelyn, rather than softening with relief, only stood straighter, spine steely and poised. "They under the protection of the finest knights in the North," he assured, chuckling to himself at his apparent jest. He stopped finding humor in it when he noticed both Robb and Catelyn remained unmoved and stoic, as was expected of Starks, especially in times of war and winter.   
  
"My lord, where is the Queen?" Jon asked from behind Robb, dark ribbons of hair falling over his forehead. Looking at their willfulness, Robb reminded himself that his whole party needed some grooming after the grueling weeks of travel. He lifted a hand to his chin and felt the thick, rust-colored hair that had grown there while Lord Wyman fumbled for an answer. Catelyn stiffened and when Robb turned his eyes upon her pale countenance, he was nearly taken aback by the caged look in her bright eyes. He thought she was ready to bolt like a hound by the way she stood on edge, excitement and anxiety buzzing off her like fruit flies had the last sweet summer, back when he was still a boy and the Stark name loomed heavily over the head of his father instead of his.   
  
"She…" the lord drawled from atop his seat, stretching his great big neck to glimpse behind the exhausted party standing before him, impatient, frustrated, and in desperate need of the amenities that were an essential part of a noble's life.   
  
"She is right here," came a soft female voice from behind the party, nothing like Robb had imagined the Targaryen's tone to be, and Lord Wyman visibly eased into his seat, recoiling in relief. At a glance, she was beauty incarnate, clad in a dress made of thick, gauzy cloth that could not possibly offer any warmth to the pale, creamy skin beneath, lilac eyes mild and nearly detached, platinum braids coiled around her head and draped over a slender, subtle shoulder. He looked at Jon then, worried that he would say or do something to betray the heavy secret that weary Lord Reed had taken from around his shoulders and dropped onto theirs. But Jon remained silent even as the Queen moved her small feet encased in leather boots, closer and closer, even as she clasped his hand in an unusual greeting and stood only a step away from him, the son of ice and fire. 

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
                           Sandor

 

 

 

"Are you any closer to being done?"   
  
Sansa looked up at Arya with mild annoyance, but remained on her knees before the sorrowful weirwood trapped within the cold, hard prison walls of the Wolf's Den. Sandor loved seeing her pray, eyes closed, long, dark eyelashes stark against her warm, pink cheeks, face pensive as she pleaded with her sweet Gods for safety, and to have mercy, and to bestow kindness upon their family, her family. It didn't mean he believed in her deities, but he sure liked the thought that his better half still harbored even the slightest bit of naïveté in her great, big heart of gold.   
  
"Oh, Sansa, would you pretty please pray with haste, so that we may sup before we starve?" Arya clasped her hands together and brought them up to her face in a shabby imitation of the angelic, sweet girl she was not, the role she was not born to play but everyone seemed to want to shove her in. Sandor could not help but smile as Sansa's resolve to continue her holy ministrations crumbled visibly. She rose from the rough ground gently, dusted her fur-lined dress off, and looked down at her sister with an expression of playful vexation.   
  
"As you wish," she smiled and reached for one of Arya's slender arms in an attempt to stay steady on her feet, then turned to him as the entrance became lit and loud with the sound of someone's approach. "My Queen?" Sansa called out, watching as the soft torchlight came nearer in silence. Sandor felt his own annoyance then, for they had asked for peace and quiet and ordered the servants to leave them to their own devices while Sansa prayed and Arya and himself accompanied her. _Can't leave us be for an hour,_ he grumbled internally and looked at the entrance as well.

 Only the Queen had the authority to enter then, so it was a given that the three found shock in the entrance of a certain Stark with auburn hair, icy eyes, and a deep frown marring the beauty of her graceful face.   
  
"Oh," Arya squeaked, small hands tight around Sana's forearm, while Sandor straightened and stepped closer to them, attracting a sharp look from Catelyn. She stared at him for a heartbeat or two, and then she was taking quick steps toward the trio, spine straight and mouth a flat line.   
  
"Mother," Sansa extended a slender songbird wing toward her, but instead of Catelyn becoming the sobbing mess they had expected, or simply spitting a sharp rebuke, she gave to her a stinging slap to the soft, sweet face that could only look back in baffled pain at her perfect lady mother breaking out of the docile mold of nonviolence she had been in her whole life. _Mad bitch_ , Sandor thought as he reached a big hand out to move her away from the rabid matriarch, but before he could grasp the fine material of her dress, Sansa was being pulled into the dark furs of her mother's chest. Arya looked up at Sandor, face as confused as he felt, but both remained silent as Catelyn clutched onto her eldest daughter in earnest and cried her love, her regret, her anger into the smooth, red locks of hair at the side of her head


End file.
